


Birthright

by Morcai



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Assassination, Bad coping mechanisms, Friendship, Gen, Organized Crime, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reborn has the worst ideas, Rocks Fall Everyone Dies, Suicide Attempt, handcuffs (not sexy ones)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-14
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-03-07 11:44:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 73,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3172942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morcai/pseuds/Morcai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thirteen is too young to gain eight years of memories that might come to pass--especially when you don't even know what to do with yourself in the present. But when the future is that bloody and dark, do you have any choice but to try to change it?</p><p>  <i>He remembers the absolute agony of the doctors trying to save him, which finally sent him into blissful unconsciousness—</i></p><p>  <i>—except he doesn’t remember any of that. Tsuna’s last memory is of putting his head down on his desk and falling asleep to the sound of the teacher’s droning, thirteen years old and tired of not understanding a word, not of being twenty-two and beloved and dying.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. you're made of memories you bury or live by

Tsuna wakes up.

Which is bizarre, because the last thing he remembers is _dying_ , a handful of storm flames sinking into his stomach, like a thousand sharp teeth biting into his organs. He remembers the pain, excruciating, lingering and absolutely present, but never quite enough to force him out of awareness. He remembers Hayato’s frantic voice when they found him, what must have been a day after Volpe left him to die. He remembers the absolute agony of the doctors trying to save him, which finally sent him into blissful unconsciousness—

—except he doesn’t remember any of that. Tsuna’s last memory is of putting his head down on his desk and falling asleep to the sound of the teacher’s droning, thirteen years old and tired of not understanding a word, not of being twenty-two and beloved and dying.

Tsuna is thirteen and listening uncomprehendingly as the teacher lectures, but something inside of him is older and sadder and angrier, and all that person can see is the ruins of the school he sits in. He looks over his classmates, and he knows them, every one, and the list is chilling because he’s never bothered to learn their names. But still, something in him is quietly ticking them off—died when they bombed Namimori, died in the ambush that killed Romario, paralyzed below the waist, traitor, died in a hospital after bombing, both legs amputated, died defusing one of the Namimori bombs, unknown, unknown, dead—with a cold poise that frightens him.

And then he gets to Yamamoto Takeshi, and it’s like being punched in the stomach.

_The sound of Takeshi’s sword slicing through air and flesh is a sour comfort as Tsuna’s Will flares high and he calls his Flame to burn his share of the attack squad to death. This is their fifth squad in the last twenty-four hours, and it’s beginning to wear on both of them. The squads aren’t large, but they are persistent and they tend to have nasty tricks up their sleeves. The last ones carried poisoned knives, and Tsuna’s just glad that he knows how to clean his wounds with Flame. The scars will be ugly, but he’s not dead, so that’s a win._

_The screams cut short from the last trio, and Tsuna lets the Flame he is holding on them fade, shaking his head to rid himself of the sound. The fire-haze still filling his eyes, Tsuna scans the room. The half-squad he took on is nothing but so much ash, and as he turns to check on his Guardian, Takeshi drive his blade into his last opponent in a flat, vicious thrust through the heart._

_“They’re getting a little better, don’t you think?” Takeshi asks, and Tsuna shakes his head._

_“Not against someone like me. Half of them can’t even see the Flame before it destroys them, let alone use it themselves.”_

_Takeshi shrugs and smiles, flicking blood from Shigure Kintoki and sheathing the blade._

_“We’d best get going. Hayato will be worried if we don’t show up soon, and you know how he gets when he worries. Cigarette smoke everywhere.”_

_Tsuna laughs a little at Takeshi’s priorities and settles his Will back into dormancy. “God forbid,” he says, smiling back._

_He’s still smiling when his Intuition howls a warning, and a blade slides out the front of Takeshi’s chest._

_His Rain falls, and Tsuna folds in on himself as he screams, his Will twisting with rage._

_The whole world lights on fire in response. The assassin has time to shriek, a high, thin sound of utter agony, before they’re nothing but so much ash._

_It will not bring Takeshi back, and Tsuna’s wrath flares at the cold truth._

_Xanxus is the one who finds him, hours later, Takeshi’s cold hand in his and Shigure Kintoki across his knees. The fires are still burning, Tsuna’s Dying Will still fueling them, and new ones flare up every minute or two. Tsuna doesn’t look away from Takeshi’s face, even as Xanxus lays a cautious hand on his shoulder, and his Flames are still not Sky._

_“That’s not doing much good, baby capo,” Xanxus says, and his voice is almost kind. “Just lighting up signal fires.”_

_Tsuna blinks. His voice is cold and even when he replies, “The last squad didn’t even have time to scream. I’m getting better.”_

_Xanxus’ fingers tighten on his shoulder, almost painful_ —

Tsuna chokes and gasps as he surfaces from the memory as though from drowning. He can’t help shuddering, trembling at the overwhelming _shockragegrief_ the other Tsuna was filled with. Spreading his hands on the desk, trying to ground himself, it’s a shock to see them so small. His hands are not marked by the calluses and small scars that eight years of combat brought, and they tremble faintly from the force of emotion, in a way that the older Tsuna had long since left behind. He taps the shaking fingers of his right hand, the missing weight of the Vongola Gear making him frown, feeling vulnerable. It will be almost two years before he wears it again, if the memories can be trusted, but the lack of it already makes his hands feel unbalanced.

If is an important word though. Who knows if the Vongola even exist? Certainly the early memories match up, between his own and the twenty-something Tsuna, but it wouldn’t shock him at all to find that the eight years of madcap battle are nothing but a dream. _Him_? Leading _anything_? Let alone a mafia famiglia as large and powerful as his memories insist the Vongola were? Ridiculous.

Tsuna taps his fingers again, and the expected clack of metal on plastic does not come. Looking towards the windows, he’s unsurprised to see cloudy skies and weak sunlight, typical weather for early April. Still, the sight makes him sigh a little. Ryohei and Hibari. Never a good combination unless he wanted serious property damage.

“Sawada,” the teacher snaps, and yes, Tsuna is in class isn’t he? The teacher is unmemorable, honestly, but he must have been trying for Tsuna’s attention for some time, given the irritation Tsuna can hear. Still, it’s still much harder than it ought to be to care. He remembers fire and betrayal and destruction, and the way that this school was a charred-out ruin, remembers the screaming, the blood on purple fabric and the way Kyouya’s lips peeled back from his teeth, the way he said _run_ —

“Sawada,” the teacher calls again, and Tsuna finally looks up. The teacher points to the board, and the fairly straightforward equation on it. “Solve this.”

It’s nothing too difficult, honestly. Reborn would have slaughtered him if he couldn’t solve these sorts of problems in his head. The hitman-turned-tutor always did have high standards—

“It’s negative four,” Tsuna says, cutting off his own train of thought, the his-not-his memories of things that have not happened.

The teacher blinks, then stares at Tsuna for a moment.

“Correct, Sawada,” he says after a moment, sounding surprised.

The class erupts into whispers and Tsuna puts his head back down on his desk. Math class can’t help but feel unbearably pathetic, when he compares it to what that other Tsuna dealt with. Teachers who hate him and children who tease him are nothing compared to thousands of lives riding on his every word, or to people who do not hate him at all and still want him dead.

Stretching his neck and back against the stiffness of napping hunched over a desk, Tsuna slouches in his chair and waits out the murmurs. They’ll stop soon enough, he’s not _that_ interesting, just no good.

He goes through day on pure autopilot, his hands doing the work that’s in front of him without too much input from his brain. He’s going to regret it, when he gets the work back covered in red ink and with damning numbers at the top, but every time Tsuna tries to focus, all that fills his mind is blood and death and fire. After the first few times vivid, bloody memories intrude on his attempts to focus, he gives up completely and just lets the day pass him by.

It’s nothing near peaceful, not with the memories unwilling to rest, but so long as he doesn’t focus on anything particularly hard, the images don’t try to overtake his vision, and instead slip past him like ghosts. They whisper the secrets his schoolmates will one day keep, or tell the bloody details of their deaths. Or, the case of Kurokawa Hana, they sing the brilliant song of love and marriage and war.

When he looks at Sasagawa Kyoko afterward, wondering if the other-Tsuna ever managed to get to know her, the memories are nothing but a raw ache of sorrow and guilt, vivid images of dark suits and funeral flowers. Tsuna bites his lip against the bitter taste of tears in his throat, and doesn’t look at her again.

He doesn’t really look at _anyone_ , not after another chance look at Yamamoto brings up a memory of a hospital room and a dozen beeping machines.

When the bell rings for lunch, he’s glad. His focus is shattered by a thousand intruding thoughts, and his hands are still shaking. The half hour break from staring at people whose deaths like to play out in full sound and color in his head is welcome.

Slipping out of the classroom is easy, and it only takes a second of indecision in the hallway before he decides that the roof is probably the best place to get some peace. Discounting Kyouya, people don’t usually go there, and the chances of Kyouya being there during lunch, when there are so many ‘crowding herbivores’ to discipline, is low.

Tsuna focuses on the motion of climbing the stairs, on the stretch and burn of muscles that are not yet accustomed to far more difficult exertions. If he pays too much attention to what he’s doing, he starts drifting into the memories of battles that took place at the school—bombs and illusions and poisons—and it’s all too much.

Not paying attention almost bites him in the ass, though, when he reaches the top of the stairs. He almost makes it out the door onto the roof before realizing that it isn’t as empty as expected.

Kyouya—Hibari-san, Tsuna corrects himself, because if he slips the prefect is going to murder him—is sleeping in a patch of fleeting sunlight, the jacket of the disciplinary committee serving him as a pillow. Tsuna has moment to be terrified that he’s going to be heard before he’s stumbling back from the door as the memories crash over him.

_Namimori is in ruins, and all Tsuna can think is that Kyouya is going to make him pay through the nose to fix it._

_(Kyouya isn’t going to make him pay to fix anything. Tsuna saw the conflagration of violet dim to nothing and he knows what it means but he cannot bring himself to believe it.)_

_The dust is settling, slowly, and Tsuna can taste cement on his tongue, coating the inside of his mouth._ Namimori is supposed to be safe! _something inside him says helplessly, but the bombs and the smoke and the screaming Tsuna can hear on the wind say that it isn’t, that it hasn’t been for some time._

 _Rescue personnel are moving in behind him, and they tried to keep him out, tried to make him put on a mask and a helmet, but Tsuna didn’t have the_ time _, not when the purple flames were rising, rising,_ rising _over the shattered skyline._

_The battle took place by Namimori Middle, because of course it did. Because of course the Maschere would tear into everything Kyouya loved, would set their assassins in the place he kept under his absolute protection, the place where the Foundation was born and Kyouya first became one of the Vongola. The Maschere are always careful to be cruel._

_Tsuna is frantically trying to shift his Flame to Sun as he stumbles through the bombed-out wreckage. At the very least, it’s a weekend and the school is empty. That is one atrocity he has yet to lay at the feet of the people who are killing his people._

_When Tsuna finds his Cloud, it’s abundantly clear that even his best work shifting the Flame is going to do nothing but prolong the inevitable. Kyouya’s lost his jacket somewhere, and his shirt, one of dozens of identical purple button-downs, is torn and stained with enough blood its original color would be difficult to determine if Tsuna didn’t know it like his own Flame. He’s sprawled against what was once a wall, and now barely reaches up to Tsuna’s waist._

_Kneeling by Kyouya’s side, Tsuna presses his lips together when his Cloud doesn’t even stir at his proximity. Kyouya should be snapping at him by now--he hates being healed, or looking weak in front of anyone. Blowing out a sharp breath through his nose, Tsuna looks his Guardian over. It’s difficult to see what the worst injuries are, but Tsuna steels himself, grasps all of his shifted Flame, and presses his hands to Kyouya’s chest._

_It’s a losing battle, he knows it from the start. The Flames are called in a thousand different directions and Tsuna bares his teeth at the shadow over Kyouya’s Will._

You can’t have him, _Tsuna snarls at that specter of death, and forces his Flames to heal, knitting flesh together, mending bones with brute force, accelerating blood production, filling gaping wounds with proud flesh to stop them from bleeding out. It’s a sloppy, rushed job, but the shadow recedes and Tsuna opens his eyes._

_Kyouya is looking at him like he’s an idiot, but that’s nothing new._

_“You need to leave,” he says, voice rough, and Tsuna wants to argue, but he bites his tongue at the fierce look in Kyouya’s eyes. “There’s nothing an herbivore can do here.”_

_The words strike home, like they’re meant to. Kyouya hasn’t called Tsuna an herbivore in years, and Tsuna can’t help rocking back on his heels at the impact it has. Kyouya ignores him, wrapping his fingers around the tonfas that rest at his sides, and shoves himself to his feet, not even hissing as wounds break open once more and broken bones shift and grind against each other._

_“Run, Tsunayoshi. There’s—” Kyouya coughs, then spits, blood striking the ground with a thick splat. “There’s still work for you to be doing, or all of this will be for_ nothing _.”_

_His piece said, Kyouya takes one step, stumbling, and then another, more graceful. The third is almost normal. Tsuna watches, bites his cheek until he can taste copper, and stands up himself. Something grinds and crashes inside the ruined school building, and Kyouya’s violet flame begins to rise once more._

_Tsuna turns in the opposite direction and knows that someday soon, someone will place the Cloud ring in his hand, Roll missing and the Vongola Gear stripped away. He tries not to feel like a coward for leaving his Guardian behind._

The memory lets go and Tsuna gags on the cement dust and blood he can all but taste, before he stumbles to lean against the wall of the stairwell.

It’s like the memory of Yamamoto, slotting in neatly beside it, and Tsuna can hear them both, can hear both deaths. The visceral knife-into-meat _thunk_ of the blade into Takeshi’s back. The bubbling, rasping sound of Kyouya’s breathing, the hacking coughs that brought up so much blood, the wet sound of that blood striking the ground when Kyouya spat it all out.

Tsuna’s hands are shaking even more than they were before, and he holds them up, staring at them. He can almost see Kyouya’s blood on them, and he knows that it took hours of scrubbing to get it out of the crevices of the Sky Vongola Gear, that it took hours more to get it off of his hands, out from under his nails and in his nailbeds.

Reborn had said he was imagining it, but Tsuna could see it, could _smell_ it, and he’d kept scrubbing, even as the skin became red and raw, and then split at the base of his nails.

Dimly, Tsuna is aware of sliding along the wall, of wedging himself into a corner until his shoulders ache at the pressure of the walls against them. It’s not something that concerns him, truly. There’s blood on his hands and in his head and he _died_ , in that other-future, he died in too much pain to move but not enough to pass out, died with the agonizing, sickening feeling of his organs being _eaten_. The flames weren’t just taking him apart they were eating, _eating_ him.

He presses a shaking hand to his side, just below his ribs, and he can almost feel warm blood and the searing pulse of Storm flame he can’t focus enough to Harmonize with. His breath quickens, and soon it is as heavy and labored as it was when the other him was dying.

Was dying? Is dying? Maybe these few hours, a single, peaceful day at Namimori Middle, before Reborn or the mafia or Flames, are nothing but a delusion, a hallucination, an illusion woven to make his last hours alive less painful. He can feel the wound now, a gaping mouth vomiting blood and Flame under his hands, as surely mortal as if Volpe had put a knife through his throat but crueler, because Hayato was—is?—trying to save him and isn’t going to be able to.

Tsuna’s hands are shaking, pressed against his side. He’s going to die. He’s going to _die_ , and he spent all those years being scared of bullies and dogs and bad grades on math tests, he’s twenty-two (he’s thirteen) and he _doesn’t want to die_.

“ _Breathe_ , herbivore,” a cold, familiar voice says, and there is a hand on his shoulder that does not belong to his memories of rough cement floors and blinding hospital lights and dazed, animal pain.

Tsuna’s panic skips and shatters at the intrusion, and Tsuna breathes, choking. After a moment his eyes flutter open—he doesn’t remember shutting them, strangely enough—to see black cloth and a plain stairwell, not hospital white or bloodstained cement.

 _An illusion is only real so long as you believe in it_ , Mukuro said once, sprawled across Tsuna’s bed, building an illusion of something strange and fey. _But, so long as you do believe, it has the power to hurt you._

Tsuna takes a shuddering breath, and another, bracing himself, and removes his hands from where they are clamped over his side. There is no corresponding gush of blood, and when Tsuna looks down, all he sees is the white of his shirt. There is no fist-sized hole opening his abdomen.

He is not dying.

The breath leaves him in a shuddering rush, and he leans back more fully against the wall of the stairway, not quite sure his legs are going to support him. He’s okay. He’s thirteen years old, he’s in Namimori Middle School, and he’s not in the middle of fighting for his life. He’s wearing his school uniform, not a bloodstained suit, and the hand on his shoulder does not belong to an assassin.

Which rather begs the question of whom it _does_ belong to, though, and Tsuna has his suspicions about that.

Looking up, he’s not exactly surprised to find himself meeting Kyouya Hibari’s grey eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, so. Alternate future time travel fic, where the Vongola came under attack during Tsuna's reign as Decimo. Rocks fell, everyone died, pre-Reborn Tsuna woke up with all the memories of the twenty-two year old Tsuna, all the way to that Tsuna's death. [thumbs up]
> 
> Hopefully this will update every other week or so, but we'll see.
> 
> (A million thanks to my beautiful betas. Chapter title is from Vienna Teng's song Never Look Away)


	2. if you're afraid, give more

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Alive, huh?” he says reflectively. “What a thought.”
> 
> Kyouya looks at him like he’s an idiot. It’s a look Tsuna is vastly familiar with. “You are alive and uninjured. You are in Namimori.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thousand thanks to my betas, [ahoderahayato](http://ahoderahayato.tumblr.com) and [babybirdblues](babybirdblues.tumblr.com), for ensuring I don't make a fool of myself when I write. Chapter title is from Vienna Teng's "Oh Mama No"

Biting back the first, instinctive _Kyouya_ , Tsuna meets those pale eyes and says, “Hibari-san, is something wrong?”

It’s only the years of the other’s familiarity with Kyouya that lets Tsuna read the irritation that crosses the prefect’s face at that. A bad part of Tsuna, probably too influenced by these new memories of Takeshi to be healthy, snickers at the sight. But it isn’t like he can be honest with Kyouya, not about this, so obliviousness is going to have to be his best defense.

Probably, it will get him a tonfa to the stomach or something similar, but that’s bearable. He’ll stumble back into class, everyone will look at him, understand what happened, and stop paying attention. He’s probably late anyway, so it’s not like his classmates will wonder what he was doing that got Hibari on his case.

“If this happens again, herbivore, I expect to be notified.”

Tsuna, wrenched out of his thoughts, blinks, confused. It’s certainly not what he expected to hear from this Kyouya—fifteen and bloodthirsty, without the poise or the focus that the other-Tsuna can see the rough bones of. The words wouldn’t be out of character for that other-Hibari, bright and still and spare, linchpin to the whole force under his command. But here and now, Tsuna would never have expected Hibari to display anything that so nearly approaches concern as this.

“I don’t—” _know what you’re talking about_ , Tsuna wants to say, but Kyouya just fixes him with a flat, unamused stare. Tsuna slumps, his head rolling back to strike the wall but his eyes still fixed on Kyouya’s. Kyouya doesn’t waver, and eventually Tsuna blows out a slow breath, dropping his shoulders and any laughable attempt to stand up to the prefect.

“Fine.” He says instead, and Kyouya nods slightly.

The prefect steps back and looks Tsuna over, before closing in again and yanking the hem of Tsuna’s shirt up, ignoring the squawk of protest. Kyouya’s eyes are intent though, almost worried as they rove across Tsuna’s abdomen.

It takes a moment for the reason to sink in, and then Tsuna relaxes, shrugging a little.

“There’s nothing wrong with me, Hibari-san,” he says, almost apologizing. “I just…” He trails off, a little helplessly. What can he say, really? “ _I just remembered you dying in a future that hasn’t happened yet_ ”? “ _I keep not being able to tell if I’m thirteen and crazy or twenty-two and hallucinating on the operating table_ ”? There’s no way to explain it that doesn’t end up making him sound like a complete lunatic.

“Hmph,” says Kyouya, dropping his grip on Tsuna’s shirt and stepping away. Tsuna bites his tongue to keep from giggling madly at the familiar sound. Kyouya has always disapproved of hysterics. “You are alive, herbivore.”

Bizarrely, those words, said with Kyouya’s typical absolute, unshakeable surety, make Tsuna feel less like he’s dreaming from his deathbed, and something tight and worried in him relaxes slightly. He can’t help smiling a little. Kyouya has always been able to cut right to the heart of things without even trying.

“Alive, huh?” he says reflectively. “What a thought.”

Kyouya looks at him like he’s an idiot. It’s a look Tsuna is vastly familiar with. “You are alive and uninjured. You are in Namimori.”

Tsuna huffs a laugh, and turns the thought over in his head, examining it. He’s alive, thirteen years old and remembering something impossible. He’s in Namimori, not bleeding out in some godforsaken field hospital in Naples. It feels true. Right.

Is there any harm in _accepting_ that it might be true? Tsuna thinks it over, but it doesn’t take long. Despite everything, there’s not much to his situation, at the core.

He’s alive, uninjured and at school. He’s a thirteen year old loser, and he has the memories of a twenty-two year old mafia boss. It’s impossible, but a lot of things in the other-Tsuna’s life were impossible, and happened anyway.

It’s okay though, maybe. He knows what might be coming. Doesn’t that mean, he might be able to change it? What a thought. Useless, No-Good Tsuna, changing the future. Changing the _world_ , if he can manage to get it right.

He _will_ get it right.

“Get back to class,” Kyouya says, breaking the bizarrely companionable moment, as though he can tell Tsuna’s finally found some sort of equilibrium. When Tsuna doesn’t move, Kyouya aims a tonfa for his head.

Yelping, Tsuna ducks under it, and dances away from several more strikes before fleeing down the stairs towards his classroom. Still, he has to fight the urge to smile. It’s nice to see that his weird issues haven’t knocked the world entirely off its axis.

* * *

When he gets back to his classroom the rush he enters in is more than a little embarrassing—he nearly falls on his face coming through the door and the whole class erupts into giggles and whispers. The teacher looks entirely unimpressed with his apology for the disruption. Tsuna squares his shoulders against the looks and the not-so-quiet commentary, and retakes his seat.

He does his best not to notice Takeshi’s gaze, which sits more heavily than any other person’s. It shouldn’t, there’s nothing between him and Takeshi, they’ve never spoken, but it feels like there’s something.

Tsuna knows Takeshi now, knows one version of who he could be inside and out. It’s the sort of thing Tsuna can’t un-know, now, and Tsuna’s not sure he really wants to. That Takeshi is--was, may yet be--one of the best friends Tsuna ever had. It might have ended in tears and blood and fire, but there was, for a few brief years, more joy than Tsuna ever knew before.

It makes Tsuna smile a little, and he knows it would look odd to anyone who knew him, but at this point in his life, unlike any that may come later, there’s no risk in anything.

It’s comforting, in some ways, to know that his decisions don’t have the kinds of ramifications that could reshape landscapes anymore. At the same time, he feels too light, almost like he’s going to float away, without the weight on his shoulders to hold him down to earth. Without the pressure pushing him down, Tsuna’s not sure he knows who he is.

Well. He knows who he _is_. But, is No-Good Tsuna the same person as the Tsuna sitting in class right now? Because he is not the Tsuna who wore those responsibilities on his shoulders, he has never reshaped the landscape with the force of his will, but he _remembers_ it. He remembers it like he lived it, even if that can’t be the case.

There’s a sharp _crack_ and someone shrieks, and Tsuna’s hand falls to the underside of his desk, ready to flip the furniture onto its side and huddle behind it, though the cheap construction will be little defense against Flame or bullets. A split second later, he recognizes that it was merely the teacher smacking a ruler against a sleeping student’s desk, and he releases his white-knuckled grip.

He relaxes tight muscles slowly, unable to join the rest of the class in giggling as gunshots ring out in the charnel house of his memory. The other students settle down quickly enough, though, and the rest of the day passes in a way that’s almost dreamlike, and Tsuna lets it. Paying too much attention has already proven itself to be a bad idea, and so he refuses to let himself give attention to anything.

It’s not the same inattention of the morning, not dull incomprehension making his brain fog up or despair at ever understanding making him drift into daydreams to protect himself. Instead it’s simple apathy, punctuated by vague astonishment that so recently, he cared so much about his classes. Grades and algebra and literature feel so _petty_ when compared to what he remembers now.

Even while refusing to pay attention, Tsuna’s still bothered by flashes of memory, not enough to place them, just enough to unsettle, to make him twitch and shiver and shake. Even if he wanted to, he wouldn’t be able to focus at all, and ends up drifting through his classes in a haze of distracted nerves and distant amusement. None of the teachers call on him, and he ends up spending most of his time staring out the window, or doodling idly. Nothing recognizable comes of it, but Tsuna’s not surprised. He’s never been any good at anything when distracted, and there’s nothing about the situations he’s in that lends itself to any sort of focus.

Sometimes, the teacher will call a name and it will strike a chord of memory. When Kyoko is called on in Japanese, he is momentarily dazzled by the sight of her smiling, wearing a grey coat with a circle and flame emblem embroidered on the back. Someone speaks, replying to a question, and Tsuna remembers the sharpness of a cheap wine and the smell of cigarette smoke. Another name is nothing more than a few notes of a song he does not recognize.

Eventually the bell rings for the end of the day, and muscles Tsuna hadn’t even realized were tense relax slightly. Even the tiny flashes of memory are stressful, and they swing wildly between making him smile and enraging him, between making him want to cry for hours and making him want to laugh with genuine mirth.

He takes his time packing up his things, taking care with how everything is replaced in his bag, ordering his papers and reordering them. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone, and he wastes time with tiny things to let his classmates go ahead of him, to make sure he has a chance at some peace and quiet to walk home in.

Finally, he can’t justify it to himself anymore, and he picks up his backpack and leaves the classroom, slouching through the hallways like if he tries hard enough, he can become one with the wall and floor.

Of course, it doesn’t work. Tsuna’s never been good at being unnoticed, even when he’s focused, and he’s certainly not focused today.

If he were focused, if it was a normal day, Tsuna wouldn’t have walked down this hall. This is where a lot of third years like to hang out, and a couple of them like to collect ‘tolls’ from anyone who doesn't look threatening, whenever Kyouya and the rest of the Disciplinary Committee are busy elsewhere.

But it’s not a normal day, and the hallway is the most direct route out of the school building. Tsuna isn’t paying the attention he ordinarily would be--too focused on other things and other times. And so he walks right in to one of the third years, like he always does.

The boy makes a fake-pained noise, and looms, or at least tries to. Tsuna finds it difficult to react, even when the boy makes his demands--Tsuna’s money, Tsuna’s pain, Tsuna’s fear-driven respect--and other third years crowd in to intimidate.

It’s all very unimpressive, honestly, and Tsuna barely manages to resist the very Bianchi urge to start examining his nails. It won’t help, and it might just get him punched. Instead, he just waits, patiently, as the third-year he ran into moves on from moaning about how he’s injured to insulting Tsuna, which might have been upsetting this morning, but with Tsuna’s recent crisis, words like this boy’s--various synonyms for useless, weak, stupid, no good--are less injuring than a puff of warm air.

Eventually, the third-year gets tired of insults that seem to go unheard, and chances a shove, secure in the knowledge that the Disciplinary Committee is elsewhere. Tsuna barely steps back at the strike. It was blatantly telegraphed, making it child's play to shift weight and stance to absorb the force.

His feet reset, Tsuna just looks at the boy, at the bully, and can’t help but think about how tired he is of the changes that just keep coming, of knowledge he never learned making him move in ways he was never taught, of how the memories of blood and death and family and love are exhausting, demanding all of his emotional energy. He just has no patience left for the fear these people used to inspire so easily. There’s too much in his head that laughs at them.

 _Not very balanced, is he?_ the memories whisper in the back of his mind as he looks at the bully pointing out the flaws in the boy’s stance, how easily Tsuna could break it. _And nervous too, see that?_ Tsuna can’t quite catch the bully’s eyes, and there’s the faintest sheen of sweat, just barely gleaming on the boy’s brow. It’s bizarre, the way that the tiniest things suddenly make sense, with the quiet voice of that other Tsuna’s memories pointing them out.

 _Why are you so nervous,_ Tsuna wants to ask, _I’m just as no-good as I was yesterday_ , but instead he just looks at the boy dully.  
  
Tsuna doesn’t know his name—he’s one of a dozen at Namimori Middle, all so interchangeable that Tsuna sometimes cannot tell them apart. They’ve had this standoff every day for weeks, and Tsuna has tried to hold his ground more than once, but this is the first time he’s done it shaking with something other than fear. _This is exhausting_ , he thinks, and sighs. If the boy isn’t going to do anything, he needs to get home.

Tsuna takes a step forward, and the bully takes a step back, and then another, and then the boy is leaving, not running, not quite, but certainly there’s nothing like a swagger left in his step. It doesn’t make sense, except in the way that the other-Tsuna had the same thing happen in his last years of high school—just looking at people and remembering the work on his desk, the missions the Ninth had assigned would somehow send them fleeing. Must have been something in the eyes. The other third years back away, flattening themselves against the walls of the hallway, and Tsuna wonders what this looks like to anyone watching, these hulking figures backing away from one tiny weakling.

He bites his tongue sharply against the laughter that bubbles up at the thought that he’s getting a head start on becoming his future self. He’s not the other-Tsuna, and he’s not sure he really wants to be.

Shaking his head a little, he leaves the school grounds and begins to walk home. He doesn’t notice the whispers that follow him.

He expects it to be peaceful, but he can’t help but noticing the little things that are going to change. In about a year and a half, the corner store a few blocks from school will be taken over by a new owner, and it’ll soon become Lambo’s favorite place to buy candy.

A few streets down, three houses will be rebuilt in a different style after an accidental fire destroys them. Gokudera, Bianchi and Reborn had marshmallows. Tsuna did not want to know.

Tsuna can’t help but smile at an arcade as he passes. He and his guardians will be banned from it in two years, after Takeshi breaks a skeeball lane by accident, Hayato reprograms a racing game’s physics engine and Mukuro, while possessing Chrome, reduces four different children to tears.

Now that he thinks about it, the other-Tsuna and his Guardians got banned from a lot of places after incidents like that. Arcades and casinos were often the worst hit. Tsuna snorts, remembering the way that the proprietor of the Parisian casino Hayato had found so entertaining had been torn between tears and rage after Hayato proved his memory and rather alarming grasp of probability at the poker table.

_“That’s the problem with these places, Tenth,” Hayato had said afterwards, “They’re just not used to dealing with people who can really count cards. We’ll go somewhere in Venezia when we’re back in Italy, and I’ll show you how people who are good at it cheat. For God’s sake, I can’t understand why she was so upset. No one was even playing pocket aces, for shame. The French are wimps.”_

_Tsuna laughed, tucking his smile into the cover of his high-collared jacket. It had been such a quintessentially Hayato moment, where the rules were nothing more than guidelines to be subverted and ignored. Tsuna, who had never been interested in gambling, had found himself looking forward to leaning over his Guardian’s shoulder, learning about how the Italians cheated at poker._

It never happened, though. Hayato never managed to make good on that promise. Two months later, they returned to Italy, but they weren’t headed to Venice. Instead, they landed in Naples, and Tsuna was claiming Lambo’s body from the police morgue.

 _He was ten_ , the memories hiss, _he called me Tsuna-nii and he died. They put thirty-nine bullets into his body and over two hundred more into his car and driver._

Tsuna can almost see the grim looks on the faces of his guardians and his people. He’d been Decimo for only a little over three years, and already the Thunder ring was back in his hands. The other had strung it on a thick silver chain, stolen out of Gokudera’s jewelry, and it had knocked against that Tsuna’s sternum like a mourning drum for the next six months.

_They said the very sky caught fire, when the Vongola finally stormed the Macello compound. The Decimo’s guardians had hunted the Family across Europe like a pack of hunting hounds after foxes. But when the Family had gone to ground, when it came time to strike at their heart, the best informants say that the Decimo went to war alone._

_The Macello lived only two months after causing the death of the Decimo’s Thunder guardian._

Tsuna shivers, and the memories sigh. _It was necessary_ , they say. _It was stupid_ , they also say.

Biting his lip, Tsuna clenches his fists and stares at the houses, which will be nothing but so much rubble in eight years, destroyed by bombs drilled into cement foundations and taped under siding. It was brutal, that first, short war of his reign. It was vicious and terrifying and Tsuna had wondered what it made him, after all was said and done.

He can hear the screaming now, high and thin, fading in and out in counterpoint to the quickening _tha-thump_ of his pulse and the roughness of his breath. The world is starting to tilt and spin, as though he’s bleeding again.

 _You are alive, and uninjured. You are in Namimori_. Kyouya’s words repeat in his head, and Tsuna pays attention to them alone, refusing to let memory distract him. Kyouya wouldn’t let screaming like that go on. _Focus_ , Tsuna.

He slows his breathing, pulls his fist away from where it rests low on his abdomen and uncurls his fingers. It’s not screaming. It’s a car alarm, far enough away that the sound carries inconsistently, close enough that Tsuna can still hear it wailing. Namimori, Japan, not some godforsaken compound in the hills of southern Italy, not a warehouse near the docks of Naples. It’s a cool day, but Tsuna shivers in his jacket and uniform. It’s too easy to forget, sometimes, to get caught up in the memories of atrocities other people committed, and to forget the ones that other-Tsuna performed.

He’s going _home_ , and if the memories of his friends are terror and pain, if his memories of himself are terrifying and bleak, there should be some joy in seeing his mother, right? She’s not involved, according to the memories, so she shouldn’t have been a target.

Almost before he realizes it, he’s home, stepping through the gate and into the front yard. It’s ordinary, exactly the same as when he left in the morning, but now it feels him with a kind of distant nostalgia that he thinks he might just have to get used to.

Slipping into his house, Tsuna calls out, “I’m home!”

He expects his mother’s cheerful, “Welcome home.”

He doesn’t expect the absolute _riptide_ of emotion that drags him under at the sound of her voice, though. Grief, longing, desperation, loss, all so strong Tsuna feels like he’s drowning. He stumbles, right there in the doorway, barely catching his balance against the doorjamb.

 _We searched every hospital for you and never found you, where have you been all this time?_ the memories ask, and Tsuna knows that plaintive, bewildered longing from years ago, when he kept wondering why his father never came back, before his mother told him that Iemitsu had gone off to become a star.

 _Lie_ , the memories whisper, and show him the image of a tall blond man with a pickaxe and orange flame. Tsuna grasps the fabric of his shirt over where the wound that killed him sat. Iemitsu is a terrible father, but he gave his life for his Family. Isn’t that all Tsuna could ask?

Tsuna still has to swallow back rage and tears.

So many tiny things set off such huge reactions—the sight of Yamamoto’s smile, the sound of his mother’s voice, his own memories—and Tsuna wonders, a little bleakly, if he’s ever going to be able to respond normally to anything ever again.

“What do you think I should make for dinner?” his mother asks, completely oblivious to his conflict, her head poking out of the kitchen. She looks so young, compared to the way the memories think she should look. There are dozens of wrinkles missing, and her smile is so bright, unshadowed by the worry and stress that will come over the next few years, as the mafia works its way into her life and her house.

Tsuna wants, so badly, to tell her something, to tell her he’ll make dinner tonight, or even just to sit in the kitchen and watch her cook, but the sight of her makes his heart ache as though it’s being ripped out of his chest. He’s not certain he could stand her company for more than a few minutes without breaking down into either hysterical laughter or frantic tears.

“I—” Tsuna hesitates, then says, “I think I’m just going to go to my room, okay? I have a lot of homework, and I’m kind of tired.”

He doesn’t wait for his mother’s response, just flees up the stairs. Even just those few moments are too much, and the memories feel like they’re about to drag him down again.

Walking back into his bedroom feels bizarre, like he hasn’t been there for months instead of just hours. Dropping his backpack by the door, Tsuna sighs and crosses the room, closing the window shades against sunlight that stabs at his eyes, before sitting on his bed.

He wants to cry, just to see if it will release some of the aching in his throat, but the tears won’t come. Instead he just feels _tired_ , clean and empty and hollowed out, like someone reached into him and scraped his insides clean, like there’s nothing left inside his chest.

It feels a little bit like grief, and a little bit like being lost, but mostly it just feels like pure exhaustion.

Tsuna shifts on the bed, until he’s lying on top of the blankets, instead of sitting on the edge of the mattress, and stares at the wall. It’s too early for the sun to have even begun setting, and the light leaks into his room through the curtains, painting his room in soft shades of grey. It reminds him of funeral services held at odd hours to avoid their becoming a target, of marble tombstones and cloudy skies.

_Lambo, Takeshi, Mukuro. Ryohei, Hibari. Kyoko, Iemitsu, Enma. Xanxus, Nono, Lussuria, Shamal. Mammon. Reborn, Lal Mirch, Colonello._

Tsuna closes his eyes, presses the heels of his hands to his eyes and hopes that the starbursts behind his eyelids will blot out the litany of his dead. He breathes, steady and even and careful, and doesn’t even notice when he falls asleep.

His dreams show him long conversations and late nights and matchless fierceness, painted in the pale watercolors of memory, but no matter what or who he dreams of, they are all woven with the soft-voiced whispers of loss.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter should be up in about a week or two. If you're interested in the occasional commentary on the fic-writing process, or on KHR itself, I'm on tumblr as [boycottromance](boycottromance.tumblr.com). Comments and kudos are things of beauty and joy forever!


	3. begin again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He spends his morning wandering through Namimori, mostly the commercial district. It’s certainly not peaceful, but at least it doesn’t leave him shaking in terror, or too far gone into his memories to comprehend the world around him. It’s more a constant running commentary of criminal activity, and occasionally the memory-emotion sings a dissonant counterpoint to his thoughts that sets his teeth on edge.

The next morning Tsuna wakes with almost-familiar piano music fading into nothing in his head. He blinks slowly and turns to stare at his ceiling, unable to muster up enough energy to move. It’s a boring ceiling, nothing more than white plaster, but Tsuna stares at it like it holds the secrets of the universe, or at least like it might help him understand the tangled mess his life has so suddenly become

It doesn’t. He manages ten minutes of staring, all absolutely useless, before his mother’s voice rings through the house.

“Tsu-kun! You need to get going soon, or you’re going to be late for school!”

He’s out of bed and changing into a clean uniform before he even really thinks about it, and he manages to pick up his backpack, run down the stairs and grab his bento out of his mother’s hands without tripping, or his brain interjecting all that much.

It’s only when he’s left the house and is on the way to school that he really thinks about anything, which ends up being the wrong idea completely. It always is. It’s only ever when he finally starts paying attention to what he’s doing that he realizes the consequences. He stumbles, barely catching himself against a telephone pole, and stares unseeingly out at the road.

It’s so _stupid_. He’s going back to _school_ , the school where Kyouya died, where Takeshi nearly killed himself, where Xanxus was refused by the Vongola ring, where anytime Tsuna turns a corner he could run into one of the many Namimori graduates who died in the Vongola-Maschere war. He’s got to be a _masochist_ , to want to see those people--thirty-odd of them in Tsuna’s year alone--who found themselves members of various _famiglie_ and died for it. He can’t even remember how they all died, beyond that most of them died badly.

_“Boss, I’m going to make the shot” “Don’t--”_

_Looking through eyes of flame at the traitor, bound and glaring at his feet and_ deciding _to kill her--_

_“Get clear--!”_

_Four bodies in the tiny saferoom, thrown into the walls like rag dolls--_

Tsuna shivers, leaning against the pole. He got them all killed, even the ones who fought with the Maschere (and what’s to say that wasn’t the right decision?). No one from Namimori would have been recruited by the _famiglie_ if Tsuna hadn’t been the Decimo of the Vongola.

In light of six years as a mafia boss, going to school stops seeming worthwhile. Everything that Namimori Middle has to teach him, he already knows. There’s no one there who will miss him if he skips either. Takeshi is still the star of the baseball team, not yet ostracized for quitting without reason and Ryohei is busy with his club. Hayato is probably somewhere in Italy, still freelancing. Lambo is with his Family, and Mukuro is likely planning his escape from the Vindice. Chrome, Chrome is probably still the unwanted child burying her pain in her animals, and Tsuna’s heart aches for her, but he can’t see anything he can _do_ about it.

Kyouya might care, but only distantly, and likely only because Tsuna will be violating his sense of order.

It’s not a compelling argument for showing up.

Tsuna turns towards downtown, stripping off his uniform vest and shoving it into his backpack. It’s not the best disguise, but it’s unlikely that anyone is going to stop him for playing truant. Though it’s a little cool in just his shirtsleeves, the walking will warm him up.

He makes his way aimlessly, taking rights and lefts at random. Before the memories, it would have gotten him lost for certain, even in his own hometown. But the other knows Namimori in more detail than Tsuna ever tried to, and the mental maps might have half a decade or more before they will be of date, but the basic plan of the town hasn’t changed.

He spends his morning wandering through Namimori, mostly the commercial district. It’s certainly not peaceful, but at least it doesn’t leave him shaking in terror, or too far gone into his memories to comprehend the world around him. It’s more a constant running commentary of criminal activity, and occasionally the memory-emotion sings a dissonant counterpoint to his thoughts that sets his teeth on edge.

An alleyway where he was once beaten up, and where the other finally ran down a yakuza scout; the plaza where Tsuna occasionally crosses with his mother, where the other says Basil ( _friend_ , the memories say, and _deniability_ ) once arrived with false rings, a mad swordsman _(Squalo, allyenemyally, sharks and swordsmanship and an impossible oath_ ) on his tail. The constant intersection of present and past-future is exhausting, and sometimes he gets too caught up in the memories’ muttering, and tries to take turns that don’t exist yet, or look for parks and stores that have not yet been built.

It’s like walking a very, very narrow tightrope; keeping himself focused enough on the present that he doesn’t start screaming from all the terror in his head, but touching on the memories enough to keep himself from getting lost. Already, it’s building up a tension headache that makes it feel like his temples are clamped in a slowly-tightening vise.

Still, he has a feeling it’s easier than going to school would have been.

He eats his lunch in a secluded corner of a park, chewing mechanically and swallowing with difficulty. Most of it remains uneaten, and Tsuna keeps walking. Occasionally, when the cold starts to get to him, he ducks into stores or cafes, and the memories are not so terrible then. Reborn ordering Tsuna to pay for his coffee, the two of them of an age for a brief time, and somehow being mistaken for siblings. Kyoko and Haru making Tsuna take them out for cake, as a repayment for dragging them into the future.

Passing Kawahira Realtor, he has to bite back the urge to spit. It would be rude, and Kawahira might be manipulative and cruel, but Tsuna knows how to end the Trinisette system. Keeping out of Kawahira’s bad books will help, when the time comes.

Hunching his shoulders and shoving his hands deeper into his pockets, he keeps walking. A few more hours, and he can go home without it looking too much like he just gave up on school for the day.

He wastes those last hours in the mall, wandering through stores like a ghost, seeing the shadow of future trends in the shelves, humming music that has not yet been released. Sometimes things catch his eye--a logo Hayato once wore, the small restaurant Kyoko and Hana liked for lunch when they went shopping, the four shops he once took Chrome to when she was still too shy to buy clothes on her own--and it’s like having the breath knocked out of him. It’s painful and disorienting, but no one bothers him as he stares and flinches and wanders, so the increase in his headache is worth the peace. Eventually, he checks the time and knows that if he walks slowly and circuitously, he can walk back to his house and it won’t seem like he’s been wandering the town all day instead of attending school.

He makes it most of the way home before finding an obscured corner to pull back on his vest. It’s always the little things that give away a lie, and Tsuna doesn’t want to hurt his mother any more than he can help.

Fortunately, she isn’t home when he slips back into the house, perhaps slightly earlier than he would be if he had been where he should have been. The house feels too empty, without her humming and the noises of her bustling around.

The memories whisper that the house will be full of life and noise until the day it is reduced to rubble, and Tsuna has to rest by the door, simply breathing for several long moments before he can blink away the shattered walls and windows, before the white paint stops wearing soot stains like scar tissue.

It’s hard, harder than it should be, to push away memories he shouldn’t even have. But Tsuna’s getting used to it. When he reopens his eyes and the signs of war are gone, he leaves the doorway, stepping into the kitchen.

His appetite hasn’t been up to much since the memories started to press into his life like parasites, but he’s barely eaten all day. He forces down some food, though it makes his stomach roil. It’s better than passing out awkwardly in public later.

He heads back upstairs immediately after, and he can hear his mother enter the house just as his bedroom door closes behind him, and he breathes a sigh of relief. He’s not sure he could face her now.

His room’s a mess, and part of Tsuna recognizes it, calls it normal, but the rest of him wonders how it happened, when is Reborn going to make him pay for the carelessness? It throws him off balance, and when he tries to pick his way through the mess, Tsuna finds himself stumbling, not sure where to put his feet. He trips a few times, balance wavering, and he considers trying to clean it up, but he’s exhausted, and it doesn’t really seem worthwhile. Instead he changes out of his uniform and into more comfortable clothes before sprawling out on his bed, staring at the wall. It holds no more answers than the ceiling did that morning, and gradually, Tsuna finds himself falling asleep.

He doesn’t fight it. Sleeping is, at least, better than blank white walls, and his dreams are terrible in their gentleness, but they are at least not all of shattered skylines and bleeding wrecks that were once human bodies.

They sing in the same pale shades and soft edges, showing him the joy of pressing flame against flame until there was nothing but the orange glow and his opponent’s grin, of fireworks and cherry blossoms, of the taste of wine and the smell of gunpowder. He dreams of the Sun ring in his hands, dried blood still flaking off, of the Lightning ring knocking against his chest.

He dreams of ice, and wakes with tears on his face and an apology on his lips, swallowed back with difficulty, the words fading away like mist under the morning sun.

* * *

Tsuna slips out of the house quietly on Wednesday, wearing a school uniform but with a change of clothes packed in his bag. He’s not certain if his mother knows he’s not going to school, but if she has noticed, she’s said nothing.

He plans to spend the day much like the previous, wandering through Namimori’s commercial district, relearning the town that became strange to him over the course of a single day.

The other’s memories don’t speak up much, but sometimes Tsuna can almost see the shapes of buildings that are not yet built, or that are still under construction, or the places in the skyline where, in the future, buildings will no longer stand. It’s confusing, but at the same time, it’s kind of cool.

He walks, and if it’s less peaceful than the day before, he chalks that up to the way he’s watching the skyline, which can’t quite decide _when_ it wants to be from. It shifts and flickers, and it’s more than slightly nauseating to watch. Eventually, he stops looking, and instead of nausea or the tension headache of the day before, his mind starts to feel like it’s been filled with grey mist. He’s _tired_ , down to his bones, and his thoughts are blurry and too-clear all at once.

He hasn’t slept well, too troubled by dreams that are too clear and honest when he sleeps, and too vague to really remember when he wakes.

It frays at his temper, the lack of sleep and the troubling things he does remember from the dreams, and Tsuna’s never really gotten angry at his situation before, but he _never asked for this_. The other fought and lost and died, but that’s _not Tsuna’s fault_. He doesn’t notice as his casual strolling becomes more of a stalk, and the crowds on the sidewalk begin to part around him, too caught up in the fury, in the _unfairness_ of it all.

He takes turns at random, only thinking to be away from all of the _people_ that fill the streets near the shops. The back alleys are less populated, but those who do inhabit them are a rougher class of person. Tsuna doesn’t care. The first few who try to get in his way he shoulders aside, temper rising with each encounter, and when he turns a corner and nearly runs into a large group of older boys, something in him says, _why not?_

It’s a stupid idea, to pick a fight here, but with the memories practically shouting, scraping along nerves long past raw, Tsuna doesn’t care that he’s never before managed to come out on top.

He throws himself into the crowd, and the memories, which know how to judge an enemy, have him noting the important details-- _high schoolers, playing hooky, probably kick dogs in their spare time_ \--in the instant before he’s in the thick of the brawl, fists and feet flying.

It’s a blur of impact and pain and vicious, vicious satisfaction after that. There’s someone on the ground, curled into a ball that Tsuna knows from his own experience, and he sets himself to defending them as best he can. He can’t manage some of the things that the memories whisper about, but he can manage a good punch, with all of his weight behind it, and he’s certainly better at keeping track of the melee than any of the high schoolers are. He manages to dodge at least one punch that ends up hitting someone coming up behind him in the face.

He’s not good at fighting, Tsuna can _feel_ it, in the way that his strikes land and the reactions of his opponents, but he’s better than these punks, who have only ever brawled with people of their same graceless style. He takes hits, but by the howls some of the boys let out when he lands a fist or a heel in them, he’s doing more damage than he’s taking.

It’s an eternity and not long enough before the high schoolers break off their assault, and Tsuna steps away from their victim, feeling simultaneously like chasing them down and like throwing up. He’s never been one for violence, that’s always been the domain of people like Kyouya and Hayato and Takeshi and the strangers he knows in his dreams. But he _wants_ to be one of those people now, because at least in the middle of a fight, the world makes _sense_.

The person who was being beaten up uncurls, slowly, and Tsuna barely has time to register red hair before he realizes that he’s looking into the bruised face of a young Shouichi Irie.

Tsuna stares for a single, incredibly long moment, before panic crashes down on him and he turns and bolts, not bothering to pick any direction other than _away_. He reaches the main roads through nothing but blind instinct, and he forces himself to a walk once he’s there. Running will just make him look suspicious--he needs to leave the area, to make himself so invisible in the crowd that Irie will never find him.

The memories are screaming like alarms, pointing out a dozen ways to remove witnesses, to smooth things over with the police, to escape. They’re insistent in their advice, telling him _turn_ here _to get_ there _faster, this way will evade all security cameras, if you say_ this _to the head of police out of Kyouya’s hearing you’ll get off free_ , and Tsuna can’t handle it. It’s all too much, too much information he never asked for, too much horror he never wanted, too much pain he never earned.

He stops on a street corner, and takes in a deep breath. As he lets it out, he pushes the memories away, one sharp burst of will that leaves his mind wondrously clear, and sets his eyes on the horizon. If he can occupy himself completely, maybe the memories will leave him alone. If he wears out his body, maybe the memories won’t trouble his sleep.

Tsuna picks a path--towards the park and the empty parts of town, keep away from civilians--and starts running.

Time creeps by at a snail’s pace, but Tsuna refuses to stop. He’s going to do it, the only thing he can think of--outrunning the memories, wearing himself out so thoroughly that there’s no space in his mind for them to catch him, to bowl him over with their sorrow and their rage and their pain. He refuses to allow them the strength. He’s always been good at denying reality, especially when it’s staring him in the face. Reborn always despaired of him because of it.

He runs until his legs are screaming, and until the burning in his muscles becomes familiar and easy to ignore. His feet start to ache from the repeated impact with cement and asphalt--his shoes aren’t meant for running. Tsuna ignores it all. The pain, low and dull and throbbing, drives out the memories, and the rhythm of breathing keeps his mind from wandering. Tsuna runs for block after block, slowing only when he can’t avoid it, when his legs threaten to fold under him. It never stops him for long, he’s always up and running again as soon as he can.

Eventually the pain stops dragging him down, and Tsuna’s mind is occupied by nothing but the rhythm of his footsteps and the distant blue of the sky. The spell of forward motion. If you’re determined enough, everything goes away. All you have to do is keep watching the horizon and never, ever slow down.

Eventually, he does. He has to. The sun is lowering, and he’s been out for far, far longer than he would have been at school. Halfheartedly, he pulls on his uniform vest and hopes that it will pass muster with his mother. His hands are shaking and he’s soaked in sweat, but his brain is echoingly, blissfully empty.

The walk home hurts, overtaxed muscles screaming at him, but it’s a good hurt. He hasn’t injured himself, just pushed further than he probably ought to have. He lets his body ache, and does not remember anything he shouldn’t as he makes his way home.

* * *

 

Stumbling in through the door, Tsuna mutters a greeting to his mother and toes off his shoes before dragging his aching body up the stairs. He barely has the energy to shower and pull on pajamas before he collapses onto his bed and falls asleep immediately, exhausted and sore.

> A liger, snow white but for black stripes like scars, walks beside him, down one of the winding streets of Rome. --Dreaming, then, Tsuna says, and the liger gives him a dirty look. No sense of humor, just like his partner. Still, Bester is always the best gauge of these things. After all, he’ll never show up outside of dreams, anymore.
> 
> They walk, through Naples, Messina, the ruins of Namimori, concert halls and restaurants and museums, and Tsuna sears bullets out of the air and tears through armies. A poisonous flower blooms in his side, staining his shirt with petals like flame.
> 
> \--You should stop that, he says mildly, folding a grey jacket over his arms. --It’s rude to wear a death wound into someone’s funeral. The flower keeps blooming in spite of the reprimand, and Tsuna shrugs.
> 
> His boots ring back echoes as they strike the flagstones of the church’s floor. It smells like flowers, sweet and sad. As he approaches the coffin, Bester roars in pain and freezes, falling out of step. Tsuna does not stop, cannot stop.
> 
> He steps up to the coffin, and spreads the Mantello di Vongola Primo over Kyoko’s corpse. He turns away. Old grief cuts away at him, leaving a pair Xs to bleed freely on the backs of his hands. There is nothing he can do, and she would chide him for taking the blame for her death.
> 
> Seated in the pews though, are his Guardians, and _those_ deaths weigh heavy. Takeshi, with Wrath pulsing in his chest, piercing through his sternum, Mukuro and Chrome with lotuses blooming in the place of their left eyes, fused into something broken and _wrong_ and silently, eternally, screaming. Ryohei is a ghost, a sketch, a gaping wound in the world, nothing but blood and shattered bone.
> 
> Lambo’s face would almost be peaceful, except for the bullet wounds that have nearly sawed off one arm, and reduced most of his abdomen to so much shredded meat. Kyouya is a ruin, smoldering wood, broken stone and fractured flesh.
> 
> Hayato, his hands bleeding, broken things, has eyes of nothing but splintered glass. He’s limned in flame, as though on the verge of being blown apart.
> 
> \--The unquiet dead, a fox says, leaping nimbly from his place at the pulpit. --Unavenged and unable to rest. Well _done_ , Vongola the Tenth.
> 
> Tsuna screams, _ragepaindenial_ , the flower searing into his flesh. Bester, frozen among the pews, speaks with another’s voice when he says, --You called us _Family_.
> 
> He stumbles back to the casket. It’s empty but for a profusion of lilies, white and orange.
> 
> \--For you, Tsuna, Hayato says, and a hand presses against Tsuna’s back and _shoves_ , pushing him headfirst into flowers, the scent overwhelming. Petals fill his mouth and he can’t _breathe_.

Tsuna wakes with his fingers white-knuckled in his sheets, still choking on the overwhelming stench of lilies. It takes several long moments of staring into the darkness to get his breathing under control, and to remember where he is.

 _Kyoko_ , he thinks, and can almost feel the weight of her uniform jacket in his arms, the smoothness of her box and how cold her hand was. He remembers the sharp sound his shoes made on the floor of the church all too well.

Sitting up, he slips out of bed and wraps his blanket around his shoulders, walking silently through the house. It’s early morning, the sun just beginning to think about rising, but Tsuna knows he won’t be able to go back to sleep. Not after dreams like that.

Instead of trying, he slips out one of the windows, onto the lower section of the roof. A quick jump and scramble later, Tsuna hauls himself over the edge and onto the top of the house. It’s less difficult than it probably should be, to climb up there, but he’s not going to complain, not tonight.

It’s peaceful up so high, even if it is cold, and Tsuna tilts his head back, staring at the stars. _Hayato would probably know the names of the constellations_ , he thinks, and smiles a little. Not all the memories of that future are terrible, but even the happiest ones are overshadowed by grief and sorrow.

Everything these days is tainted with loss, like the soot stains and smoke and rubble he keeps seeing out of the corners of his eyes. It weighs on him.

Looking back over Namimori, Tsuna breathes slowly and watches the sky.

 _You could just go_ , the memories whisper as the horizon begin to glow with the first faint colors of sunrise, _just take your passport and go somewhere else. You know how._

It’s tempting. He’d be leaving behind the people he knows and the place he grew up, but, well, his skipping school has already shown that while  _he_ might know people, consider them precious even, there’s nothing reciprocal about it.

Tsuna drops his chin to rest on his knees, tightening his arms around them. It wouldn’t be hard, not really. He has a legal passport, even knows where it’s stored. Faking his way onto a ship or plane out of the country might be difficult, but it certainly wouldn’t be impossible. Most of the memories’ strategies for crossing borders semi-illegally are meant for an adult, but it works pretty much the same no matter what age you are. He’d be able to establish himself easily enough too. The other’s memories of languages are clear enough, and Tsuna shifts a little before trying Italian.

“ _Buon giorno_ ,” he says quietly, stumbling a little, his mouth fitting oddly around the syllables. It’s not as hard as he thinks it’s probably supposed to be.

“ _Buon giorno_ ,” he repeats, and it’s easier, his tongue trips less. “ _My name is Lazzaro_.”

His lips tilt into a bitter halfway smile--Lazzaro, for Lazarus. A particularly black joke of Hayato’s that never really faded.

It’s even blacker now.

Tsuna shifts on the rooftop, wrapping the blanket more tightly around himself. He wouldn’t look particularly out of place, if he picked the right city. And the memories already know how to look like an Italian, how to fade into the vast crowds of Messina or Naples or Palermo.

He laughs a little. If he wanted, he could probably work his way into Vongola operations without much trouble, even. They take on new runners all the time, and the security measures aren’t intended to stop people who were _in charge_ of the operations, once upon a time and not yet.

The sun rises slowly, and Tsuna huddles further into his blanket, considering his options. He doesn’t even bother to think about the possibility of going back to school. It’s not worthwhile at all.

Eventually, he scrambles down from the roof and slips back in through the window, stepping softly to avoid alerting his mother to his movements. She might have noticed _something_ at this point, but there’s no reason give her anything more to worry about than she already has. He pads back to his room, keeping his footsteps as soft as he can.

Once in his room, he considers things a little further, before deciding no, he’s not going to be leaving, not today at least. But it might be good for him to get out of Namimori proper for a little while. Tucking a change of clothes into his empty backpack, he pulls on a clean uniform and sits down on his bed, bringing his knees up to his chest.

When his mother calls, he resists the temptation to ignore her, to curl himself tighter and wait until there’s no way for them to interact for more than a moment. Instead Tsuna wraps frail bravery around his shoulders and makes his way to the kitchen.

His mother chatters over breakfast, and Tsuna barely eats, taking his lunch and sliding out the door with downcast eyes and few words.

At first, he’s not sure where to go, beyond _away from Namimori_ , but the trees past the edge of town catch his eye, and almost before he thinks about it, he’s headed into the forest. It’s starker than memories paint it, almost-bare trees reaching up to the sky, leaves just growing back for the spring. The thick greenery of summer is some months off yet.

Tsuna tucks his hands into his pockets, rounding his shoulders against the chill. It’s not cold, really, but the air is brisk enough that he’ll start shivering if he stays still for too long.

He keeps moving, and his mind drifts absently over the memories of the forest--a dozen misadventures with a blond man and his... _turtle_? Tsuna shakes his head. Long summer afternoons of tag, livened up, as ever, with explosives, gunfire and Reborn’s unpredictable whims. And--

And the panicked, fire-hazy time he trained to battle the Varia for the title of Decimo. Climbing cliffs, facing a boy with a Rain flame burning-- _Basil_ , the memories say, again, and they show him a dolphin holding a formation of other animals, a smile as peaceful as spring rain paired with fierce determination, a hand placing a single white carnation as a grave offering.

There’s no sour taste of grief to the name, and Tsuna breathes slowly and wonders that he has found someone that the other did not lose the cruelty of war.

He keeps walking, skimming over the edges of memory, like the stones some kids can skip endlessly over the surface of the river. Tsuna has never managed the trick of it, and every time he tries, his rocks sink without skipping even once.

He isn’t paying attention to where his feet take him, so when he looks up to see a familiar wall of rock, Tsuna blinks a little in surprise. It’s simultaneously a complete shock and something that feels inevitable. Still, the cliff rises, sheer and terrifying, for what feels like an eternity. Tsuna can’t help staring. The other-him _climbed_ this? The other him _fell off_ this and _survived_?

It was necessary, he knows. He can see the situation the other was in, can practically taste the desperation. Still, it’s hard to wrap his mind around managing to climb this. Or around falling off and not ending up dead.

Tsuna knows the theory of the Dying Will. He does. He knows that it allows for superhuman feats. He can almost feel the focused, white-fire electricity of the Hyper Dying Will, the clear-burning conviction. That doesn’t mean he really _understands_ it.

Understanding the Dying Will tends to require experiencing it personally. Tsuna smiles, a little wry. He should have guessed there was no way to fast-track that kind of understanding. The memories only do so much, and the early years are so blurred by time and fire that they’re hard to grasp.

Still, he looks up the cliff. It’s a very straightforward challenge, really, this first stage of mastering the Hyper Dying Will. _Climb_. Nothing more or less to it. Perhaps it says something about those who manage it, that they keep throwing themselves at impossible tasks until they succeed.

“As if I were about to die,” he murmurs, slipping off his shoes, and sets his fingers and toes into the crevices of the cliff.

* * *

He falls, of course, and then tries to climb again, over and over.

Sometimes he falls from a height that should hurt him, but he _knows_ how to fall now, and he manages to bend and roll to absorb the impact. Nothing breaks, but most of his body is going to turn into a rainbow of bruises over the next few days. His nails are torn down to the quick, and the skin of his fingers and palms is scraped raw, but that pain is easy enough to handle.

Pressing his forehead to the gritty stone, Tsuna breathes. He’s soaked with sweat, despite the chilly air, and his fingers are screaming, slipping against the stone.

He doesn’t remember it being this hard, when he was training, but he also doesn’t really _remember_ that part of his training to begin with, too swept up in the ceaseless raging of his Dying Will to be coherent.

Still, even as difficult and painful as the climbing is, and as little progress as he’s made, it’s almost peaceful. Resetting one hand, Tsuna reaches up with the other, grasping for the next handhold and hissing a little as sharp rock scrapes his knuckles yet again. Climbing _hurts_ , the scratch of rock and the burn of exhausted muscles, but it’s a real pain, present and grounding and inarguable. It’s not like the phantoms that like to dance before his eyes, or the knowledge that whispers terrible things in the back of his head.

Using pain to shield from pain, Tsuna thinks, and by that logic this shouldn’t help at all--he tried it yesterday and all it earned him was a nightmare he couldn’t wake from. Perhaps this time it’s different because he’s _here_ , where so much future-memory is focused. Using the present to drown out the past. What a thought.

The idea picks at him, as he reaches up and gains another foot or two of the cliff. It’s almost like something else. Tsuna pauses, presses his cheek to rough stone and closes his eyes, slowing his breathing. There’s _something_ there, in the back of his brain. Ignoring the pain in his shoulders and wrists, he lets it flower slowly.

_The X-Burner._

Frowning, Tsuna opens his eyes. Checking how far he’s climbed, he shrugs as best he can and untucks his feet from their footholds before pushing himself away from the cliff and dropping to the ground. It’s no great height, and it’s hard to be scared of falling here, when he remembers being blown off the top of this cliff and surviving.

The impact jars up his legs, but Tsuna just shifts his weight, letting his feet stop stinging, before standing to take a pose that is both familiar and utterly foreign. Right hand over left, left hand almost a fist, held as though he’s grasping something. Feet braced. The memories fill in the color and the heat, the way soft flames would fill his palm, the slow build and careful balance. The soft flame to brace him, to support against the force of the lethal hard flame.

Support and attack, the double-edged sword that became one of Tsuna’s signature techniques in the first years he held the Vongola.

There’s _something_ in the precision of balanced vectors, in the building and steadying of Flame that makes Tsuna hold the stance and focus.

It’s a chilly sensation, not quite the same as the cold and ceaseless raging of the Hyper Dying Will, but connected.

 _Blood of the Vongola_ , Reborn whispers from memory, and Tsuna nods. Yes, that’s part of it, it feels like his Intuition, like that sense of _knowing_ that became so much a part of how he fought. But what’s it _saying_? The X-Burner--perfectly matching vectors, support built of the same thing as his offense, but subtly different.

Ah, there it is. The memories. _This does not have to be yet another thing to wound yourself with_ , his Intuition murmurs, and Tsuna breathes, moving through the motions of the X-Burner as though through a prayer.

Soft flames first. The memories, this new ache inside him. Something to support himself as well as something to turn against the hurts that might come, if he uses it carefully. Take the history of his life, the blown-glass fragile moments of future peace and build support from it. It’s not much, but it will have to be enough. He shifts his feet, completing the movement of his right hand. Hard flame. The memories that scrape like a knife over bone--the dead and the broken and the forsworn--turn them outward into _this will not happen_. Match the two, find the balanced place between them where they are matched. And fire.

He holds the stance for a moment, breathing in that place of tenuous balance, before letting his arms drop.

It’s not going to be easy, but with a little more knowledge, he might be able to do more than just scrape by this time. And if these memories never come to pass, then he will use them to support him against what _does_ come.

Looking at his hands and feet, Tsuna smiles a little wryly. His hands are covered in bleeding abrasions, and there are half a dozen tender places that mark where blisters will soon bloom. His feet have fared somewhat better, only a bit scraped, and covered in dirt and grit. Shrugging, Tsuna brushes the worst of the dirt off, and pulls back on his shoes, and digs his uniform vest out of his backpack.

He’s still a mess, clearly, but at least the worst of it--the bruising probably already coming up all over his shoulders, the scrapes all over his feet, the tears in his shirt--is hidden. He can’t do all that much about his hands, but at least he can keep them hidden until they’re not quite so raw.

If his mother asks, well. Maybe someone shoved him this time.

* * *

Nana worries, of course she does. Her son was always sweet, clumsy and perhaps not very smart, but sweet. He wears his heart for all to see, and he’s kind, and he’s bad at keeping secrets.

But one day he comes home from school with shadows in his eyes and his smile strained. Suddenly he hides from her and his heart no longer sits so lightly on his sleeve. He leaves in the mornings like he’s going to school, but while she might be oblivious sometimes, Nana isn’t stupid. He comes home with dirt on his hands and in his hair, his shoes showing signs of hard wear, and none of it shows on his uniform. She knows he’s not going to school, not really.

But what can she do? She doesn’t know what made the change happen, and she knows he won’t let her help. Tsuna never has. Accept help, of course. Ask for it, never.

But, maybe there are other options.

Iemitsu gave her a number--several numbers, really, when he left, for situations like this. She used to keep them in a tiny red book by the phone, but Nana memorized them all after the first few months, when she was lonely, and burned the book to keep her husband safe. There are a few, for situations that aren’t emergencies, but for when she really needs to speak to Iemitsu, that she often resists the temptation to call.

Today, she doesn’t try to resist. Dialing one is easy, practiced, but her fingers still hesitate over the last button for a moment. Calling her husband is dangerous, sometimes. He told her that. _Only when you_ really _need to_. But she remembers her son’s eyes, the way he looked at her like she was about to vanish into thin air, like she had already died and he was speaking to a ghost, and presses the button, raising the phone to her ear.

For a moment, all she hears is silence, and for a split-second she worries that the number is too old, that something happened to Iemitsu.

But then it rings, once, twice, and there’s the _click_ of the call being accepted.

“Nana?” her husband says his voice cheerful, but with a livewire undercurrent of tension. “Is something wrong?”

It takes her a moment to respond. It’s been over a year, and Nana loves her husband, and knows his job keeps him busy, but sometimes she _misses_ him, like missing summer sunlight in the dead of winter.

“Nana?” Iemitsu asks, sounding worried, and she swallows back her longing. She called him for a reason.

“Iemitsu,” she says, and her voice doesn’t crack. “I think something happened to Tsuna.”

There’s a pause, and muffled shouting in the background before a door slams, and Iemitsu speaks again. “What do you mean? Is he hurt?”

Nana leans against the wall and sighs. “No. No, I don’t think he’s injured, exactly. But he came home yesterday, after school, and he looked at me like I couldn’t be real. He’s skipping school too, and he doesn’t eat.”

Her husband laughs a little, uneasy. “It could just be growing up, Nana. Our son’s becoming a man!”

She shakes her head, though he can’t see it over the phone. “That’s not it,” she says, and this time her voice breaks. “He just came home one day, and he looked at me like he hadn’t seen me for years. Iemitsu, something _hurt_ him, and he won’t tell me what. He won’t even talk to me, he pretends he’s still going to school, but he’s _not_ \--”

To her dismay, tears are prickling behind her eyes, and she pauses to take a breath, rubbing her eyes angrily.

“Easy,” Iemitsu soothes, and she can hear there’s something going on in the background again. “Do you think it would help if I came home?”

Nana laughs, and it sounds a little bit hysterical even to her. “I don’t _know_ ,” she says. “I don’t know anything.”

“It’ll be okay. Give me a few weeks to clean some things up here and to make the arrangements, and I’ll be there. Might be bringing a bit of work with me though.”

There are two distinct _cracks_ in the background, and another shout, this one encouraging.

“What is it you’re doing now?” Nana asks, relaxing into the faint humor in her husband’s voice.

“I’m directing traffic at construction sites!” Iemitsu says cheerfully, “It’s very tricky work, they like someone who can do it well. So they send me all over the world to take care of the important places. And my boss is looking to expand into Japan, as it happens.”

“Does that mean I’ll be seeing you more often?” Nana teases, smiling like a moment ago she wasn’t about to cry. Her husband has always had that effect on her.

“Er.” Iemitsu stalls, and she laughs.

“Go back to work. Traffic doesn’t direct itself, you know!”

“Goodbye Nana,” he says, and she can tell he’s smiling. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” she says, and hangs up.

* * *

Tsuna comes home that afternoon with his face covered with dirt and sweat matting his hair. Nana would worry, except, for the first time in almost a week, there’s something almost _settled_ in Tsuna’s expression, as he glances through the kitchen doorway on his way to the stairs. Instead of half-hidden terror and the shadows of unhealed grief, there’s something almost peaceful, despite the bruise blooming on his cheek.

“Sit down, Tsu-kun!” Nana calls to him when he peers in, not letting him flee up the stairs yet again. He eases into the kitchen, wary as an ally cat, and takes a seat, his hands out of sight under the table and his backpack by his chair. There’s still something frenetic and cautious behind his eyes, even he’s calmer now than he has been. Nana knows, even if she’s not sure what happened, that the scars are never going to go away.

That’s okay. Scars are fine, she’s seen her share. She was worried about bleeding wounds. Her son may be reticent, but Tsuna’s never been very good at hiding things from her, not the things that really, really matter.

So she chatters on, about this and that--the neighbor’s youngest daughter, a sale at the mall, the weather. It’s not really important what she says, because Tsuna’s not really listening to her. But tone of voice, that’s what’s important. She hasn’t had to do this for years, not since just after Tsuna was born and Iemitsu came home, shaking in his grey jacket, odd stains on his cuffs. The principles though, are the same, and this isn’t something that’s easy to forget how to do.

Eventually, Tsuna shifts and doesn’t remember to keep his hands hidden under the table. They’re scraped raw and bleeding, nails bent back and torn down like nothing she’s ever seen, and Nana sighs. Of course her son is injured. She ducks to pull the first aid kit from under the sink and grabs a box full of band-aids. When she joins her son at the table he looks at her oddly, like she hasn’t helped him dress wounds for years, like he can’t believe she’s real.

“What kind of trouble did you get into _today_ , Tsu-kun?” she asks, and when something tight in Tsuna’s shoulders relaxes, she can’t help but feel accomplished.

“I...had a fight with a stone wall,” he says, the tiniest hint of a smile tugging one corner of his mouth.

Nana can’t help but laugh, and her hands are gentle as she cleans the scrapes and wraps her son’s injuries. When she’s done, he can barely bend his fingers, his hands are so covered in colorful bandages, but he’s still smiling.

“Tsu-kun will do better next time, right?” she says, teasing. Her son’s eyes go distant for a moment before he shivers slightly, and smiles up at her instead of replying. It’s a disturbingly Iemitsu action, but Nana squares her shoulders and decides not to worry.

Putting away the band-aids and closing up the first-aid kit, she inspects her kitchen. With the way Tsuna’s been avoiding her, he probably hasn’t been eating well, has he? She’ll make his favorites for dinner.

She flits about the kitchen, and Tsuna makes no move to get up, instead watching her from his seat at the table. He twitches sometimes, at the small things, but he’s not running, and that’s better than it was. If there’s something awful and wistful in that almost-smile he’s wearing, Nana is sure that time will ease the pain.

Her son is healing, her husband is coming home and tomorrow will be beautiful. Nana hums over the stove and dares the world to be anything less than what she dreams it will be.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to [babybirdblues](babybirdblues.tumblr.com) and [ahoderahayato](ahoderahayato.tumblr.com) for the beta. Chapter title is from "Never Look Away" by Vienna Teng.
> 
> I am still on tumblr as [boycottromance](boycottromance.tumblr.com) if you wanna stop by! The next chapter will probably be late, so please don't expect it before the seventh of next month.


	4. somebody hears you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Tsuna might be able to keep his family close, this time. He runs a finger over a bandaged knuckle, as his mother smooths down the last band aid, and tries to hope._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to [ahoderahayato](ahoderahayato.tumblr.com) and [babybirdblues](babybirdblues.tumblr.com) for the beta!

It’s peaceful, having his mother bandage his fingers. The other regards it with such _wonder_ , too, that she is there, that she can wrap colorful bandages around his injuries and ease the pain. In the memories, it had been a very long time since such a thing was possible, even before she was lost. Watching her hands, small and too-sure after years of cleaning out his injuries, Tsuna thinks. There’s no reason that he has to be the heir, this time. Enrico, Massimo, Federico. Even Xanxus. All of them could live, this world could be different from what the memories say.

Tsuna might be able to keep his family close, this time. He runs a finger over a bandaged knuckle, as his mother smooths down the last band aid, and tries to hope.

Even with his scrapes newly cleaned and covered, he can’t quite make himself leave his mother to hum over her cooking the way he has for the past several days. Instead he leans his elbows on the table and gingerly rests his chin in his hands. It’s peaceful, watching her cook, and it makes sense, which is more than the last few days have managed.

She keeps chattering on about this and that--the garden she’s growing in the back yard, the difficulty of buying good fruit, whether or not to hire someone to clean out the gutters again this year--and Tsuna can’t quite smile, but he comes close. It’s soothing, to see his mother only concerned with such small things, still fluttering and happy.

When the Maschere came for everyone, she turned from sunlight and laughter to tempered glass and obsidian. Strong, so strong and so sharp, but so very fragile and so very vulnerable too. If she had seen what became of the children she raised, Tsuna thinks, she would have shattered. For all the sleepless nights spent searching, he’s still grateful that she vanished before she lost them all to the bloody world they inherited. The other liked to hope she managed to build a new life, one that would be left unmarred by the violence of the one she left behind.

But here she is, right now. Untouched by the storms that are coming, and if Tsuna has anything to say about it, she will never even know when they break. He watches his mother cook, trying to submerge bittersweet not-yet memories in the familiar.

He tries to keep his flinching slight, but he can’t help reacting to the sound of metal on metal, the flickers of motion he sees out of the corners of his eyes, the stink of cooking meat. But this is his home, and his mother. He is not at war, has never been at war. Instead of running, he bites down on his tongue, hard. When his mother sets out the dishes on the table, he manages to smile at her. He can’t manage to eat as much food as he would have ordinarily, but he tries his best.

It’s a short dinner, and quieter than normal, but when Tsuna flees back up the stairs he feels more grounded than he has since he woke up in the middle of class and the world stopped making sense. The world is still impossibly strange. His mother is still the same woman she was that Monday morning before everything went crazy.

When he steps back into his room, the mess once again takes him by surprise. This time, he ignores the way his muscles ache and his body cries for sleep, picking up a few things here and there. He puts them back in their places with unwarranted care, and cannot resist turning them this way and that in his hands, familiar weights and textures made strange by new distance.

Eventually though, he changes out of his clothes and, still covered in dirt and sweat, curls into bed. Instead of drifting off in blank contemplation, or falling immediately asleep though, he shifts his weight, trying to find a comfortable position on the bed. It’s unexpectedly difficult--overworked muscles complaining without warning, bruises twinging at pressure, scrapes protesting brushing too closely over sheets.

He falls asleep after a long while, only to wake again and again as his body finds each position uniquely uncomfortable after an hour or so. The whole night passes in snatches, disturbed by pain and discomfort. Still, it is a more peaceful night than he has had in some time, and if he dreams, he does not remember it in the morning.

* * *

When he wakes, stiff and sore and tired, but somehow feeling more rested than he has for days, it’s half an hour before his mother would ordinarily wake him. He passes the time staring at his room’s floor, still a bizarrely unfamiliar mess, and thinking.

He’s a little more grounded, he feels, but it’s still fragile, delicate. Tenuous. Like the wrong sight might break everything he’s managed to start to build, razing his tentative new foundations back to bare earth. And there are sure to be a lot of wrong sights at Namimori Middle, starting with the school itself, continuing on through Takeshi and Kyouya and finishing out with the people like Mochida, who ended up working for him through bizarre quirks of fate.

_A good squad leader, never quite a good man. Talented with a sword and a knife and a gun, but never with Flame. His squad was wiped out when the main house burned, eight months into the war._

Besides, if he’s going to skip school, he might as well make a clean sweep of it. He’ll go back on Monday, and it’ll be like a brand new start.

His mind made up, Tsuna measures the distance between his bed and dresser with his eyes and lets out a low groan before resigning himself to the inevitable. Getting out of bed is difficult--his muscles are stiff and sore, and the scabs on his feet crack and break at the slightest movement, making him hiss in pain. Still, it’s all manageable, simple. There’s nothing blinding or agonizing about it, and he knows it won’t kill him.

It’s living pain, this ache of his muscles and sting of abrasions losing their protective shells. There’s nothing like the rot and metal taste of dying in it. Tsuna knows too well the difference between the pain that is survivable, and what is fatal.

Still, Tsuna allows himself to hiss at the pain of each disturbed scrape making itself known. Eventually, he digs out the box of band-aids he keeps in his room and wraps up the worst of his injuries, and the ones that it would be too painful to leave uncovered. The rest he leaves to benefit from the fresh air, and moves on to pulling on his clothes. It’s more painful than it ought to be. The muscles of his back and shoulders protest as he pulls on his shirt, his thighs scream as he puts on socks.

Sloppily, he pulls his vest over a shirt that couldn’t pass as part of his school uniform even if someone squinted really hard from a distance. But if his mother hasn’t said anything yet about how he’s clearly not attending school, she probably won’t say anything for one more day.  He’ll have one more day of peace.

Finally dressed, he walks stiffly out of his room. He feels like an old man, hobbling through the house, and he pauses at the top of the stairs and just stares in disbelief. _You can’t seriously expect me to go down there_ , he thinks for a second, and then his mother calls out.

“Tsu-kun, come on down for breakfast!”

Before he can realize what he’s doing, he’s on his way down the stairs, hissing out sounds that are half swear words as he goes. Clearly his mother has quite a hold on him, still. He makes his way down the rest of the stairs, wincing every few steps as sore muscles protest moving.

Breakfast is quiet, and his mother is not chattering for once, but it’s still good. Peaceful, and still more than a bit sleep-hazy. It’s nothing like Tsuna can ever remember happening before, but his mother is smiling and the kitchen is lit in warm gold tones, and that’s all Tsuna needs.

He leaves the table with a not-quite smile and slips out the door without a word, his backpack slung over his back, empty of anything but a handful of band aids, the bento his mother handed to him, and a notebook. It’s clearly not full of school supplies, but his mother said nothing and Tsuna doesn’t want to break whatever bizarre equilibrium they’ve found.

So he walks, or rather, limps, towards the school until he’s out of sight of his house, and then makes his painful way back towards downtown. There’s no particular destination, but Tsuna can’t help the urge to people watch. Really, the question is _where_. Eventually, he decides on the park instead of anything involving walking around Namimori. He’s too tired and hurts too much, everywhere, to even think about pulling stunts like he pulled over the last few days. Besides, in the park no one will bother him if he doesn’t want to be bothered.

Making it to the park isn’t difficult, and Tsuna makes an easy loop around it first, just taking note of the people who are present. Older men and women, who have no jobs to occupy their time, make up most of the scattered population, but there are some parents, with children too young to be attending school. It makes Tsuna smile to see the kids, all running as fast as their legs can take them, alight with the simple joy of _being_. The reminder makes the shadows that lurk at the edges of his thoughts draw away, and Tsuna tilts his face up to the sun, eyelids lowering against the glare. It’s good to feel so much less darkened by the memories. It makes him feel a little less like he’s suddenly a decade or more too old for his age.

Eventually he finds himself a quiet patch of grass, in the sun, but out of the way enough that he’s unlikely to have visitors. As much as he likes the thought of just sprawling in the sun for the whole day, his muscles’ protests have only grown worse over the last hour or so. If he leaves them unattended, the pain will linger for days or weeks before finally fading.

To forestall that, he starts stretching, slowly and carefully. The movements are purely of the other, learned over years of combat and stress. At first it feels fruitless and counterintuitive, pressing the pain and stiffness out of his legs and shoulders by pushing them even further.

It takes hours of patient movement and careful reaching, punctuated with breaks to rub at knotted muscle and press band-aids back down. But eventually his muscles start to respond properly, warming up and finally, unknotting, and the stiff pain eases. Eventually stretching burns only because he keeps expecting the flexibility of an older, better trained body. Settling back, so as not to injure anything, he glories in the warm ache of his body, different from the wooden stiffness he woke up with.

With his limbs finally responding properly, Tsuna returns to his original goal and gives up on any hint of physical training. Instead he sprawls out on the grass and closes his eyes. It’s warmer than usual today, and the sunlight sinking into his skin makes him feel like he’s real again. No longer quite thirteen, but not dying at twenty two. Instead he strikes that careful, deliberate balance between them. It’s easy to stay in that space, here, with nothing but the chilly ground at his back and the golden warmth of the sun against his skin.

He lets that peace carry him for a long time, drowsy, and his thoughts drift on lazy currents of nothing.

A shadow falling over his face finally stirs him and Tsuna blinks back to reality, turning his face to stare at the intruder. For a long, stupefied moment, he can only stare at the visitor with a blank face. And then the silence is broken.

“Herbivore,” Kyouya says, and the tone is chilling.

Tsuna really should have expected this, honestly. No one at Namimori Middle gets away with skipping for very long, and he’s certainly tempting fate, lying out in the middle of the park the way he is. He even has his uniform vest on, which is a stupid mistake to have made. After missing so much school, _someone_ must have noticed, and let the head of the Disciplinary Committee know.

Tsuna wants to run away from what Hibari’s presence means, or stand up and strike at the prefect, to see if that frantic clarity he found two days ago returns. Both impulses are idiotic--Hibari would chase him down before Tsuna could blink, or beat him into the dirt without breaking a sweat. Instead, he allows himself a single slow breath, and sits up.

“Hibari-san,” he says, respectful. It usually pays to be polite, even though it’s probably not going to get him out of a thorough beating. Tsuna stands up slowly, careful of muscles that could still knot up unexpectedly, and dusts himself off as best he can. Squaring his shoulders, he meets Kyouya’s eyes. His feet are set to attack or to run, though he knows it’s stupid. Still, either might give him a chance to gain a little more freedom if facing Kyouya head on doesn’t work out.

“For breaking the peace of Namimori,” Kyouya says, his voice absolutely cold, “I will bite you to death.”

Tsuna barely avoids the first tonfa, and manages to skip away from the second, the wind of its passage ruffling his clothes. After that, the idea of dodging is entirely academic, and Tsuna occupies himself with just trying to make the hits less painful for himself.

* * *

It’s a little embarrassing to be dragged into the school building by the back of his shirt, like a disobedient kitten, but it’s also absolutely hilarious. Kyouya has always been direct, but Tsuna didn’t know it extended this far.

It’s not until they’re nearly to Tsuna’s classroom that Tsuna thinks about protesting, which could probably be blamed on how thoroughly bemused Tsuna is by the whole situation.

“Kyo—Hibari-san,” he finally gets out. “This really isn’t necessary, I’m sorry for skipping!”

Kyouya doesn’t even react, which is just typical, and simply continues to drag Tsuna into the classroom, where he drops Tsuna into his seat with casual disdain before _glaring_ at him. The teacher and all of the other students have stopped whatever it was they were doing before when Kyouya hauled Tsuna in, and are all simply staring.

“Really, this wasn’t necessary Hibari-san! I was planning on coming back,” Tsuna says, a little frantic under that threatening gaze and the assessing eyes of his peers. “I would have been back in school on Monday! On time even.”

Kyouya’s face rearranges minutely, and manages to convey just how unimpressed he is with that excuse without letting up on the implied threat. It’s impressive, if somewhat terrifying.

“Truancy is unacceptable at Namimori Middle.” The statement is absolutely flat, and there’s no give in Kyouya’s expression. Tsuna bites down on the instinct to quiver, left over from before the memories made it impossible to find Kyouya at all properly terrifying.

Instead he stares back at Kyouya for a long moment, before he caves. “Fine. Fine,” he says. “I won’t skip again, I promise. At least not without telling you, and having a good reason.”

Kyouya’s only response is a disdainful sniff before he turns on his heel and stalks out. Apparently the flair for the dramatic that the memories paint in such vivid strokes is alive and well. Tsuna does his best to keep his lips from twitching into a smile.

The door closes with a snap, and Tsuna is suddenly aware that the whole class is staring at him. He winces a little, looking around. There’s no one who didn’t notice Kyouya dragging him in, not that he really had any hopes there would be. Subtle, his Cloud Guardian is _not_. Every single student is looking at him with wide eyes, and his teacher’s mouth is hanging ever so slightly open.

“Ah, good morning?” he says, nervously, and the whole class breaks into frantic conversation. Tsuna wouldn’t be particularly worried, but Kurokawa Hana is staring at him with obvious curiosity, and the memories tell him that’s something he really, really should have tried harder to avoid.

He slouches down deeper into his seat, and waits for the teacher to begin the lesson again. It’s shaping up to be a _terribly_ long day. At least he got through his stretches before Hibari showed up and beat him to shit. Otherwise he’d be hurting a great deal more than he already is.

* * *

Normally, morning classes at Namimori Middle are fairly tame. Most of the class is too tired to do anything, and none of the school’s delinquents or pranksters have gotten bored enough to start making their own entertainment. Hana finds it excruciatingly tedious, but then sometimes the afternoons are filled with so much insanity that she takes back every uncharitable thought she had before lunch.

There’s usually a lot of them.

Today, however, morning classes have already been interrupted thoroughly, and Hana’s attention is entirely focused on the interruption, because it’s entirely _baffling_. Hana likes mysteries.

Well, no, Hana _hates_ mysteries. What she likes is knowing the secrets behind what _other_ people think of as mysteries. She doesn’t like it when things suddenly change on her. It makes her irritable, especially if she doesn’t understand _why_.

Sawada, the case in point, seemed perfectly normal on Monday, though he was late coming back to class after lunch break. Then he vanished for the next three days without anyone knowing what was going on. And then, when it seemed like he was gearing up to be gone for a fourth day, Hibari _dragged_ him back into the school.

He didn’t even seem _surprised_ , and Hana doesn’t think that Sawada started to really protest until he was nearly in the classroom. Which is entirely bizarre.

That doesn’t even touch on the strange almost-conversation Sawada had with Hibari before the prefect left, which might just have netted Sawada permission to skip school or cut classes so long as Hibari is notified.

Something is going on, and Hana means to get to the bottom of it.

It’s barely been an hour since Hibari dropped Sawada into his seat, but it’s about to be lunch break, and Hana has every intention of grilling the boy until he breaks. Kyoko, who has known her for too long, is trying to looking at her with a disappointed expression that means she knows exactly what Hana is planning on doing, and doesn’t approve.

Hana doesn’t care.

The lunch bell rings, and Hana’s out of her seat before the sound has faded, making her way over to Sawada’s desk. He’s making as if to head out of the classroom, but Hana is having _none of that_.

Her hand slaps down on the top of his desk with a _crack_ that silences the room. Most of the students turn to look, and then return to their conversations without further attention. Sawada flinches, going white, and makes a jerky motion, like he just barely managed to restrain himself from diving under one of the other desks. Hana wonders about that. He didn’t used to do that. Flinch, perhaps, but he used to draw in on himself, not look like he was about to bolt.

“Sawada,” she says, testing the waters.

His eyes are still a little wild when he looks at her, but he manages a smile. The fact that the smile just makes him look absolutely insane is interesting, though. He sits back down, tense, and the smile eases a little bit at the edges.

“Kurokawa,” he returns, and his voice is warm. Warmer than she ought to rate, really. And Hana’s surprised that Sawada knows her name. He’s never seemed to be the sharpest tack, after all, and while he might have a crush on Kyoko a kilometer wide, she’s never thought of him as particularly perceptive.

She hauls a chair over and sits down, her elbows on Sawada’s desk and her chin cradled in one hand. Sawada watches her, smile slipping away as he tilts his head a little, quizzical. It’s like he’s not quite sure what to think, and Hana shuffles through her list of questions, trying to decide which one to ask first. She’s still staring, and it’s probably getting creepy, but Sawada’s reaction will be interesting.

Or it won’t, since Sawada seems to be content to watch her back, though his eyes occasionally flit across the classroom, never settling too long in any one place. Eventually Hana has to break the silence, or they’re going to spend the half an hour in a complete deadlock. Fortunately, she has the perfect question.

“So what’d you do to get Hibari-san to haul you back into class after you were missing for so long?” Hana asks, It’s almost the rudest possible question, both because Hana has never cared about tact and because Sawada’s reaction will tell her a great deal about how he’s changed.

Kyoko is glaring at her from across the room, but Sawada just laughs. Apparently nothing about Sawada makes sense anymore. Something must have messed with his head over the last few days, because Hibari just hauled him into class like a _dead body_ , a bruise already blooming blue and purple across his cheek. And what’s Sawada doing? _Laughing_.

Somehow over the last week, he’s become as much of a freak as the head of the Disciplinary Committee, and that takes dedication Hana didn’t know Sawada had. Hibari spent years slowly turning into the incredible freak he is, and Sawada has somehow managed it in less than a week. Hana did _not_ see this coming, and it irritates her.

“Ky—Hibari-san disapproves of dramatic gestures,” Sawada says, like that explains everything, instead of just creating more questions. Like, for example, did Sawada nearly just refer to Hibari by _first name_? Less than a week ago, he showed every sign of  being just as terrified of their prefect as any Namimori resident, and now he sounds like he’s making _jokes_ at Hibari’s expense.

“You’re not making sense,” Hana says, because Hana has always believed in speaking her mind. Sawada just _smiles_ , because apparently Sawada is taking lessons from that baseball monkey now, and pretending everything is a joke.

“Why were you missing, Sawada-kun?” Kyoko asks, finally approaching Sawada’s desk and shooting Hana a disappointed look. Kyoko is trying to beat manners into her, and Hana doesn’t have the heart to tell her that it’s fruitless. Still, while she might sometimes wonder how Kyoko gets through life with the way she’s always pretending to be nothing but cute and sweet, but sometimes her best friend reminds her that cute and sweet lets you get away with things that bluntness does not.

“Yeah,” Hana says, because that is a good question. “Did you end up in the hospital or something?” It would make sense--Sawada’s never been particularly well-treated in school, but he’s never vanished before. If one of the idiot monkeys that likes to push around underclassmen got out of hand, it might make sense why Sawada disappeared and didn’t want to come back. Hana hopes it’s something like that. If it turns out she’s run into another person who makes bizarre life choices without warning, she’s not sure she’s going to survive to graduate. Kyoko is enough of a handful already.

Unfortunately for her survival, Sawada just shrugs a little, leaning back in his chair. “Ah, no. There was some family trouble, I guess. And I didn’t want to face going to school. I suppose Hibari-san eventually decided that my skipping so many days violated his sense of order.”

Hana snorts. Sawada is lying, because of course he’s lying. Hibari’s nuts, but he’s usually not the one to haul back truant students unless they’re causing a hell of a lot of trouble in town. Clearly, Sawada wasn’t, since almost no one noticed he was missing.

On the balance, somewhere in the last week or so, Sawada found a sense of humor dry enough to be used for kindling. She can appreciate that, at least. She’s still going to find out all of his secrets if it _kills her_ , but it’s beginning to look like she might be able to have fun while doing it, and that’s a rare pleasure.

She smiles at Sawada, a real smile, with all her teeth, just to see what sort of reaction it gets her.

Because Sawada might now be the most bizarre person in Namimori, he’s not rattled. A quick, hesitant grin is the response, and it’s striking in just how _familiar_ that grin feels, like Sawada knows her, inside and out, and somehow likes what he sees.

 _Weird_. Still, if nothing else, Hana can say that he’s at least _consistently_ weird, which is more than can sometimes be said for Hibari and his sudden and peculiar disciplinary monomanias.

Speaking of peculiar disciplinary monomanias, there’s a flicker of black in the window of the classroom door, and staring at it for a moment makes Hana suddenly tired and cranky, because Hibari’s outside, contrary to all typical behavior.

Sawada has a lot to answer for, because apparently his sudden weirdness is _contagious_ , and it’s affecting everything Hana thought she understood.

Sawada catches her eye as she turns from watching the window, and he must have noticed the same thing she as. He offers her a wry look, too old and knowing for his face.

“He gets protective sometimes, unfortunately,” Sawada says, and there’s an undertone to his voice that makes it sound like he’s making some obscure joke at both Hibari’s and his own expense.

The only reason Hana doesn’t gape unattractively at Sawada is because her chin’s firmly placed on her hands.

Protective? _Hibari_? The closest he gets to normal human protectiveness is beating the defiance out of anyone and everyone he thinks is a threat to his precious middle school.

One corner of his mouth twitches a little higher, though Sawada’s clearly trying to suppress it, and Hana stares. Is he _teasing_ her? _Sawada_? A few days ago she’d have bet money that he had no idea who she was, and now here he is, deliberately not looking at her while clearly forcing down a smile at her expression.

“Oh, is Hibari-san worried about you, Sawada-kun?” Kyoko asks, and Hana resists the urge to twitch at the mental image the question gives her.. That’s Kyoko’s tone for making fun of people (mostly Hana) who won’t take it badly.

People always say that Kyoko is sweet, that she’s kind and beautiful and whatever, whatever. Hana knows better. Kyoko’s _lethal_.

She shoots Kyoko a quelling look, but Kyoko isn’t even looking at her. Hana sighs sharply and turns her attention back to Sawada, who’s examining the ceiling pensively.

“I suppose he might be, now that I think about it,” he says, and Hana _cannot take this anymore_.

Dropping one hand to knock against the surface of his desk, Hana makes sure Sawada’s looking her in the eye before she says, “Sawada. What the _fuck_ are you?”

He blinks at her, and then shrugs a little. “I’m a Namimori student?” he says, cautiously. “I’m a Sawada? I’m not certain exactly what you want from me, Kurokawa-san.”

And he’s _earnest_ , too, Hana thinks, and raises her hand to cover her eyes, barely holding in a groan. Kyoko giggles, because Kyoko is a sadist, and says, “So where were you when you weren’t in school, Sawada-kun?”

There’s a rustle of cloth, like Sawada’s shrugged again. “Here and there, mostly. And you could call me Tsuna, if you want. Everyone does.”

Everyone calls Sawada No Good Tsuna, Hana thinks, which isn’t the same thing as Tsuna.

“Tsuna-kun,” Kyoko says, thoughtful, because Kyoko likes informality. Hana’s going to stick to Sawada for a while longer. She doesn’t call people she doesn’t understand by first name. She removes the hand over her eyes though, and gives him a considering look.

He smiles at her, sweet and oddly wistful, like he knows what she’s thinking, and the bell rings for the end of lunch.

* * *

Tsuna lets the school day pass him by in a lazy haze. His backpack contains none of the necessary books or papers to pay attention, so there’s no real need there, and besides, his success when he ignored everything last time is only encouraging this course of action.

Kyouya would smack him for it, but Kyouya has always had bizarre educational standards.

Well, really, Kyouya just has bizarre standards in general, but the educational foibles have always been the most arcane to Tsuna, since none of the Vongola Guardians managed to attend college. The memories paint a picture, clear as day, that says that even graduating from high school was sometimes in question.

Sighing, Tsuna crosses his arms in front of him and rests his chin on his desk, slumping down in his seat. School is _boring_ , when there’s nothing to do and paying attention to the teacher is useless.

Eventually, he turns his mind to reviewing his short lunchtime conversation with Hana, It’s probably unsporting of him to be so entertained by her reactions, to find as much pleasure as he does in baffling her, but it’s a new experience and it’s unlikely to hurt anyone in any permanent way. Tsuna is reveling in the peace.

Besides, anyone who knows Hana would find the sight of her covering her eyes in utter despair, almost groaning as her irritation peaks, to be entertaining. So long as she didn’t find out that they were laughing about it.

Tsuna hides his smile, still so very wistful, in the corner of his elbow. Hana won’t call him Tsuna probably, not yet, maybe not for weeks or months yet, but hearing his name from Kyoko is like balm on the aching parts of his soul. It’s not the same as the _Tsu-kun_ of the memories, not weighted with the balance of loyalty and family and affection that they had built together, but it is something that makes the peaceful place within the memories easier to hold.

She’s still so young, the other is saying. The memories keep coming, keep comparing the woman who talked her way into and out of the confidences of a dozen mafia bosses with the girl with a smile like the summer sunrise. Still so very young, but the barest hints of who she could become are there.

Tsuna closes his eyes, pushes away the clear-burning memories. He doesn’t want that for her, not this time. He doesn’t want to lead her into a life as dark the one the memories show. The few brilliant months in eight years of chaos and terror are not enough to make him think it was worthwhile.

The teachers call on him twice, but his answers are as lackluster as ever--though this time more due to his lack of schoolbooks than because he’s completely lost. Not all of Namimori’s teachers are awful people though, and Tsuna’s managed to miss Nezu’s class today. Eventually they stop calling on him.

With that distraction dealt with, he eventually ends up tucking his face a little more securely into the crook of his elbow and falling asleep. He doesn’t dream, and he stirs every ten minutes or so, but it’s nice to regain some of the sleep he lost to his injuries last night. Most of his bruises crowd his back and shoulders, and while he can’t sleep face-down, sleeping slumped over a desk is no problem at all.

Eventually the bell for the end of the day rings, and Tsuna picks up his bag. With no school supplies to pack up today, he’s one of the first out of the room, even with his motions slow and his vision still blurry from waking up.

He wanders down the hallways of the school with the same sleepy motions, and he remembers to keep out of the way of upperclassmen this time. It’s pretty much worthless though, because someone’s going to show up to hassle him eventually. He’s No Good Tsuna. He’s like catnip for bullies.

And murderers, and megalomaniacs, and people with _vast_ issues, the memories remind him, which makes Tsuna groan and rub his face until that particular facet of the future fades from the front of his mind.

He’s _thirteen_. Given his point of view on the memories, they feel more than a little _illegal_.

Eventually he makes his way to his locker, and it’s fortunate that the combination is a matter of muscle memory, because he can’t recall the numbers for the life of him. When it clicks open, the mess is more than a little startling, the same way the clutter in his room is.

Sighing a little, he  starts cleaning out the barely-remembered detritus of the months of the school year. He’s only just started to make progress when the newest round of indistinguishable bullies arrives. Tsuna barely keeps back a snort, but he doesn’t bother trying to not roll his eyes. Like clockwork, and just as dull.

The memories show him a great many things more fearsome than a middle-school thug and his bully-boys.

(Chief among those fearsome things is Tsuna himself, wreathed in flame and purged of all doubt, but he tries not to dwell on that.)

They swagger up to him, and Tsuna doesn’t even try to restrain his sigh. They don’t take kindly to it, but he wasn’t expecting them to. They’re unbearably petty and predictable that way.

“Think you’re better’n us now, No Good?” one of them asks, and Tsuna holds back a sigh at the lack of originality. Or context. Or anything really resembling taste. The memories have ruined him--Takeshi’s sense of humor with the other’s experiences of being intimidated makes this more funny than frightening. It’s tempting to respond with a flat affirmative, just for the reactions it will gain him. He restrains himself with some difficulty. He’s been dealing with these people for years, and he’ll be dealing with them for years more. It’s not worth it to antagonize them. Not just yet.

Besides, it’s the _other_ who knows how to handle these kinds of people, who tripped them up in their own words until they submitted. Tsuna isn’t the other. It’s kind of hard to believe that he ever grew up to be that person--self-assured and dangerous, with loyal friends about him.

“Hey, I’m talkin’ t’you here!”

Tsuna had honestly almost forgotten that the upperclassmen were there, preoccupied as he is with the shape of the future. He slants a look at the one talking to him--not the same as the boy who tried to hassle him on Monday, but of the same indistinguishable kind.

The other whispers about incapacitating strikes, about how to apply force so gently it becomes lethal. The memories show him flickers, unthinking respect, unquestioning obedience, unbreakable loyalty. They tell him what it feels like to have a pistol kick in his hand.

Tsuna closes his eyes, lets out a slow breath, and picks up his bag. He doesn’t look back at the upperclassmen, for fear of what the other will encourage him to do. Instead, he straightens his back, and looks towards the exit.

“What, you think you’re gonna just walk out on us? Not without--”

There’s the sound of shoes striking the floor with perfect crispness, and then a familiar voice cuts in.

“ _What_ is going on here?” Hana asks, and the venom in her voice makes the corner of Tsuna’s mouth tick up. Vongola’s most terrifying lawyer, in full flower of her fury. He almost pities the poor bullies. Hana’s talent for flaying men twice her size alive with nought but her tongue has always been superhumanly honed.

He can practically hear the upperclassmen puff up as he blusters. “None of your business, Kurokawa. Was just talkin’ to No Good about how he’s started thinkin’ he’s better n’us somehow.”

“Well,” Hana says. “That’s never been difficult. Leave, now.”

“Or _what_?” the upperclassman sneers. Tsuna shakes his head a little, still refusing to turn around. Giving Hana openings is always a bad idea.

She sighs, sounding like her patience is entirely exhausted. “Or Hibari-san and I have a conversation about things that are and are not permitted in Namimori Middle, and you end up in the hospital with a broken bone. Or fifteen.”

Tsuna smiles for a split second. Hana, always so willing to use any tool to her hand and never concerned about the truth if her opponent can’t catch her in a lie. She’s paused, as though surveying something, and the upperclassmen are silent.

“Yes, I rather thought that would do it. Scram.”

The older boys don’t quite flee, but it’s a near thing. Tsuna turns to raise an eyebrow at Hana, now that he can look in that direction without war singing through his mind.

“I didn’t think you knew Hibari-san that well, Kurokawa-san.”

Hana snorts. “I don’t. You know that, and I know that. Those idiot monkeys don’t know that.”

Tsuna laughs a little, shaking his head, and slings his backpack over one shoulder. “Thank  you, Kurokawa-san.”

She sniffs, and does not reply. Instead she brushes past him, and Tsuna follows, still smiling. It’s good to see Hana never changes. The Vongola’s Spider only ever grew more talented at what she did. They leave the school building together, and Kyoko joins them just outside the door. She immediately begins chattering to Hana about this and that, and Hana listens attentively.

Tsuna lets himself fall half a step behind, but when he tries to fall further back, Kyoko pins him with a _look_ that says she doesn’t approve. They cross the school grounds like that, and Tsuna smiles a little. It’s nice to see them, young and unscarred and unburned by the fire of war.

Hana starts to declaim on the topic of boys, idiocy and monkey-like behavior, and Tsuna muffles a laugh, watching her. After a moment, Kyoko turns to give Hana more of her attention, and the afternoon sun spills across her grey coat, catching the light and casting a large, dark shadow across her back.

Air leaves Tsuna’s lungs in a rush, and he chokes trying to inhale, feeling as though he’s been punched in the stomach, as if someone has slid an impossibly sharp blade between his ribs.

She looks like--she looks like Sasagawa Kyoko of the CEDEF, silhouetted against the lowering sun.

She looks like the woman whose funeral Tsuna was not welcome at, like the woman Tsuna spread a tattered and stained jacket over, and laid to rest with weapons she should never have needed.

_“Mi dispace, Kyoko,” a whisper from a well dressed intruder in the middle of the service, a Mist ring placed on a cold finger, a box tucked into her hand, a grey jacket spread across her shoulders, dull against the brilliant white of the flowers filling the coffin. Pale recompense for a war that consumed her, nothing more than recognition for services rendered._

_A stinging slap from the woman who lost two children to Tsuna’s war, and a raised hand to keep the people in the church from attacking her._

_“I am sorry for your loss, Sasagawa-san.”_

_The suns are gone, after all. The whole world should feel the cold. Tsuna shivers in his suit, in spite of the summer weather, and leaves the church on quiet feet, back to a war he will only leave in a box of his own._

He can’t _breathe_. Kyoko, brave and secretive and talented, Kyoko who he failed and who he killed, is standing before him, and it’s _impossible_ and it _hurts_. He can see the beginnings of her adult features under the roundness of childhood, and all the ways that the mafia has not yet marred her.

An area the size of his palm, just below his ribs, begins to pulse, to ache like only old wounds can, and Tsuna can hear, impossibly, the crisp sound of shoes striking flagstone, the echoes sounding hollow in the dimness of the church--

The world dims, and Namimori slips away from his eyes.

* * *

It’s just a moment, but suddenly Hana realizes that Sawada’s fallen behind. When she turns to look for him, he’s stopped dead, some ten feet back. He looks like he’s about to faint, dead white and shaking, eyes wide with something Hana can’t quite place.

“Sawada?” she asks, and he doesn’t even look at her, doesn’t shift except to press one hand against his side.

“Sawada,” she says again, and she’s trying to be soothing, but she doesn’t know _how_. This is entirely out of her experience, she’s not the sort of person who _does_ this.

Kyoko has noticed, and steps closer, a faint wrinkle appearing between her brows. “Tsuna-kun?” she says, concerned. Sawada stares at her like she’s a ghost, like he’s watching her die, like everything is ending. The hand against his side presses tighter, and Hana doesn’t know what’s going on but _something is wrong_. It takes too much effort for Sawada to move his gaze from lost in the middle distance to focused on her, and it takes too long for him to recognize her.

Sawada’s mouth works for a moment or two, his throat clicking wordlessly, before he manages to croak out, “Hibari.”

Almost immediately, his gaze slips, and he takes a sharp breath in through his nose, and Hana knows he doesn’t see her any more.

Any other time, Hana would _shake him_ for this, for so suddenly upsetting everything she thought she knew about him, but instead she’s terrified because this _isn’t normal_. Instead, she pauses, counts to five in her head, and says, “Kyoko, find one of Hibari’s lackeys, tell him that Sawada wants his boss.”

Kyoko hesitates for a moment, eyes flickering across Sawada, before her mouth firms and she nods, taking off for the school doors at a dead run.

Hana puts a hand, carefully, on Sawada’s shoulder. He doesn’t even seem to notice, and when she tries to catch his eyes he just looks right _through_ her, like she’s not even present. His eyes are fixed on something in the middle distance, something only he can see, and whatever it might be, it’s clearly terrifying. The fingers pressed against his shirt curl and uncurl frantically, scrabbling at his side, and finally Hana just grabs him, wrapping the fingers of her free hand around his wrist. What he’s doing can’t be good for him--if there’s something under his shirt, scratching at it is only going to make things worse.

She doesn’t manage to hold him for long. Sawada’s wrist--thin, so thin in the circle of her fingers--twists and jerks in her grip, and she’s holding only air. His eyes are wild, pupils dilated to the point that there’s nothing but a bare ring of amber around them, and even when Hana forces him to meet her gaze, there’s no recognition in his expression, just absolute fear.

Hana doesn’t know what’s happening, but she knows that what Sawada is seeing isn’t the same thing as she is seeing. Whatever’s before his eyes is not the school grounds he stands on, but something else entirely, and for once in her life, Hana doesn’t want to know.

Kyoko hurries back, and at the sight of her, Sawada hisses out a breath, flinching like he’s been struck unexpectedly.

“Hibari-san’s on his way,” Kyoko says, looking at Hana and Sawada in turn, her gaze darting between them. “I managed to make Kusakabe-san understand that he was _needed_.”

When Kyoko says things like that, there’s no doubt that the listener understood she wasn’t going to take no for an answer. Hana doesn’t understand her best friend’s abilities, but Kyoko has a talent for looking cute and inoffensive and using that to deadly advantage. Hana’s seen it happen. Kyoko manipulating people is terrifying.

* * *

_She looks so alive, Tsuna notices, and bites down on Flame. Hayato will kill him if he puts another hole into the wall._

_She looks so alive, and Tsuna has a ring of keys and a tiny box on his desk for her._

_“So, if I say that the Vaslov are a bunch of scheming liars can we…”_

A hand on his wrist, restraint, but his enemy is inexperienced. A quick turn of his wrist to align with the seam of thumb and fingers, and a single, sudden pull, and he’s free. A wound is gushing blood in his side. Pressure’s the only option, until he can get to a medic.

_Her voice trails off, and Tsuna doesn’t know what his face looks like, but it can’t be good._

_“What’s wrong? Tsu-kun?”_

_Tsuna presses his lips together, meets her eyes, picks up the keys, weighs them in his hand._

_“Ryohei is dead,” he says, and his voice is flatter than he’s ever heard it, and he can see her not understanding. He hands the keys and the box to her, and she almost drops them both._

“Hibari-san is on his way, come on Sawada, don’t do this to me…”

_“Keys to his suite,” Tsuna says, and why is his voice so flat? Why can’t he show her that he’s grieving too? “And his wedding ring.”_

_His wedding ring, left in Tsuna’s care. Tsuna cannot keep it, and cannot give it to his brother’s widow. Kyoko can._

_“You’re on leave until Basil tells me you’re fit to go into the field again.”_

_Kyoko opens her mouth--_

“Tsuna-kun? What’s wrong? What’s going on?”

_\--closes it. Her shoulders slump, and she walks out of the office like she’s been utterly defeated. Tsuna bites his lip until it bleeds, and swallows down the raw ache of tears in his throat._

* * *

They stand there, the three of them, for what feels like an eternity. Both Kyoko and Hana keep trying to gain Sawada’s attention, but to no avail. His eyes flicker over them sometimes, and he seems to hear what they’re saying, but nothing is getting through to him enough to change what’s going on.

Eventually, Hibari appears in a flutter of black sleeves and dark hair. He seems to understand in a moment what’s going on, and he wastes no time.

A single glance of grey eyes rakes over the three of them--Sawada gasping and curled in on himself, Kyoko with her hand on his shoulder trying to talk to him, and Hana, who feels altogether too much like she’s standing guard. He jerks his head, and Hana, reluctantly, steps away. Kyoko does the same, though more slowly.

Hibari steps into Sawada’s space, pressing one hand to Sawada’s cheek and lifting his chin, until Sawada is no longer quite so bent towards the ground. He must see something in Sawada’s expression that displeases him, though Hana has no idea what. A minute frown crosses his face, and he leans close, murmuring something that Hana can’t quite catch.

Whatever it is, a shudder runs through Sawada, and he sways towards Hibari, the hand that’s not covering his side rising to tangle in Hibari’s shirt. He acts as though holding on to the prefect will somehow keep him safe.

Hana would expect it to be the opposite, but Hibari seems to be perfectly willing to protect Sawada. Indeed, the hand on Sawada’s cheek slides down to wrap around the back of Sawada’s neck, tucking him close, and Hibari begins to murmur something, low and rapid, into Sawada’s ear.

There’s no visible response, but Hana’s beginning to think that with Sawada, it’s never going to be that easy. At the very least, Hibari seems to know what he’s doing, which is more than she and Kyoko can claim. And even so, he manages to be a five-star freak, because in the midst of comforting Sawada, or whatever it is, Hibari still manages to look up and give Hana and Kyoko a poisonous look. Hana takes it to mean they’re no longer welcome on school grounds. Grabbing Kyoko’s arm, she heads for the gates.

One last glance over her shoulder, as they leave, shows Sawada still pressed into Hibari’s space, looking tiny and vulnerable and oddly protected by the black cloud of Hibari’s presence. Hana bites her tongue, and forces herself to turn away, to walk Kyoko home. There’s nothing she can do, but she’ll be _damned_ if it stays that way for much longer.

 ****  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from "Hymn of Acxiom" by Vienna Teng. As always, I'm on [boycottromance](boycottromance.tumblr.com). Hopefully I'll manage to get the next chapter up in about two weeks, but no promises.


	5. if you are afraid, come forth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as always, to [babybirdblues](babybirdblues.tumblr.com) and [ahoderahayato](ahoderahayato.tumblr.com).

Mice do not become lions.

Kyouya knows this, knows it like breath, like he knows the way that the world is put together, like the hierarchy of predator-prey-scavenger.

Mice do not become lions. This is a fact.

Sometimes lion cubs are born timid, though. He knows this too.

He stretches further into the sun, and watches the school grounds, the come and go of the herbivores under his protection, and considers one student in particular.

 _Sawada Tsunayoshi_. The files scattered across the Reception Room paint a clear image. Timid, nervous, clumsy, and a coward. Worthless academic performance, too uncoordinated for any sport, worse than helpless among the herd, there is no ability to mark him as anything but one more useless weakling under Kyouya’s aegis.

The files lie, or have come to lie. It irritates Kyouya, has left him pacing and seething quietly through his early morning duties for days, even after Sawada has begun to attend school properly again, and has made some small place among the herd for himself.

There is something old about Sawada, something dark and experienced and tired. It came suddenly, and it’s made its home too neatly to be pried out of him. Kyouya is curious, too, in his own way.

He found Sawada tucked away into a corner that first time, choking on his own breath, his eyes blank with terror. Kyouya has seen it before.

His mother vanishes sometimes, when she is recently returned from overseas, leaves behind a body that cannot hear or act or reason. Kyouya’s father guards her until she comes back, and in turn she lays hands on his cheeks when he cannot remember he is safe and tells him true things until he stops seeing death brush past him. She keeps him from harming those he promised to defend, when all he sees is _threat_.

Kyouya knows trauma, and the ways it shreds even the strongest predators. He knows the way it makes doing battle easier because going to war with the whole world makes the pain and terror _stop_.

He will not permit any predator to sully their claws in such a way on his territory. Even baby carnivores just learning the sharpness of their teeth and claws must be respected, and if that means speaking as much truth as he can to tame mindless fear, then it is truth well spent. A predator out of control of their own emotions is dangerous to all. And Tsunayoshi’s strength, for all of its new edges, is formidable.

Shifting on the sofa, Kyouya considers that conclusion. Carefully, he recalls his last encounter with Sawada--the park, and Sawada’s politeness and determination. He draws up the memory in as much detail as he can conjure reliably, and examines it.

The image of Sawada evading tonfa strike after tonfa strike, never once tripping over his own feet, taking lighter strikes to avoid the more dangerous--yes, there is strength there. Sawada never struck back, only evaded, but Kyouya wonders, thinks about the way Sawada carried his hands, the line of his shoulders and the direction of his gaze, and contemplates weapons.

It’s a new, unusual strength, this quiet ability, and Kyouya feels anticipation burn low in his stomach at the thought of matching himself against Sawada, properly armed. He can recreate the movements Sawada used in his mind’s eye. Unpolished, graceless, but always _ready_.

Kyouya doesn’t bother with the problem of where this new strength came from--only the suddenness of it, and its consequences. Timid cubs sometimes find courage unexpectedly, and are often the stronger for it. But only if they’re pushed forwards.

Checking the view out of the window, Kyouya bares his teeth in an expression that has only the faintest resemblance to a smile. He stands, ignoring the scattered papers on his desk, and leaves the Reception Room on silent feet, headed for the front doors of his school.

_What kind of predator will you be, Sawada Tsunayoshi?_

* * *

After that first day, when Tsuna chatted with Kyoko and Hana over lunch and then panicked about memories that haven’t happened yet in front of them, the two girls seem determined to treat him as a friend.

It’s bewildering, but it’s also more than a little bit comforting to have them close by. The ache of having Takeshi so near and so distant, of never really laying eyes on Ryohei, is sharper, their absence cast in deeper relief, but Tsuna can bear it. If not knowing them keeps them safe, keeps them from treachery and lonely battlefields, Tsuna will bear any heartache.

Their growing friendship has even left Tsuna’s looking forward to school recently. It’s a little weird, still, to not dread showing up, but he meets Hana on the walk to school, and Kyoko at the school doors, and they talk until the first bell rings, and all through lunch. Hana cuts in when people try to hassle him, and Kyoko smiles at him in a way that makes his heart beat a little faster.

It’s not the same flutter of devotion as it used to be, before the memories, but it’s similar. Tsuna misses the way it originally felt though, and it feels _stupid_ to do so. In the face of so much change, the thing he’s worried most about is his _crush_ and he can’t help but think it’s terribly, terribly petty.

But how much is the world going to change because he has remembered something that may never have been? Sometimes he thinks about it, at night, trying to drive away the memories and the lists of the dead and the missing and the forsworn that crowd his mind. It’s an uncomfortable thing to think about, because he doesn’t know what he’s _doing_.

The other whispers experiences in the moment, but the memories blur together, sometimes, and Tsuna can’t help but feel that he’s only going to ever manage to make things worse. Sometimes he tries to make sense of the memories, smooth them into a coherent narrative. He always ends up clutching his chest and gasping through tears, as memories ambush him.

Tsuna wants to do this _right_ , wants to somehow do better than the other managed, but he’s just a kid, just no good, just a failure, and some nights he cannot sleep because he knows what might happen to the people around him.

It makes some parts of school hard--there are so many Namimori Middle students who ended up in the Vongola-Maschere war, and the other recognizes all of them, knows their names and their deaths and the deaths they caused. Tsuna has listened to their stories for a little over a week, and it’s still difficult to keep from vomiting when he sees some of them.

In the midst of all of the strangeness at school though, Kyouya’s a reassuring presence. He’s constant, flickering in and out of Tsuna’s field of vision. He doesn’t tend to approach, but he’s _there_ , and it soothes the other’s memories to have the Cloud somewhere nearby. It’s also more than a little terrifying. Not just having Kyouya there, but knowing that he can be patient, and worried.

_you are in namimori. your name is sawada tsunayoshi. you are uninjured. you are thirteen years old._

Half a dozen simple statements. _Facts_ , delivered in the same absolute tone of voice as Kyouya delivered his warnings to delinquents. A series of things that were completely indisputable, repeated until Tsuna no longer stared at battlefields and cemeteries.

The other likes having Kyouya around because it makes him feel less alone, less vulnerable, less like something is deathly wrong. Tsuna, still thirteen and scared, finds Kyouya’s presence to be faintly terrifying, not just because the bloodthirsty prefect is following him, but _because_ he finds it so reassuring, and it’s not just the comfort of knowing that someone who can handle the sudden flashbacks is there.

Or, Kyouya’s presence _used_ to be reassuring, until now.

It’s been a week since Kyouya dragged Tsuna back to school, and now he seems to want a repeat of the scene they made in the park.

The first tonfa, which was only ever intended to get Tsuna’s attention, caught him along the upper arm, thanks to an instinctive flinch backwards. That blow has been the only polite one so far.

They’re only something like ten feet from the school doors, and it fills Tsuna with a kind of overdramatic despair that he was _so close_ to this being just another school day, when Kyouya decided to drop in and ruin everything for _no reason_.

“Hibari-san, did I do something wrong?” he asks, just as he has to drop to his knees to avoid a strike that would have all but taken off his head. The tonfa whistles close enough to ruffle brown hair, and Tsuna barely restrains a shriek of dismay.

Kyouya just smirks, and steps closer, making Tsuna scramble to find his feet. With no weapon of his own, he’s reduced to just dodging, and he’s _not_ the other, he doesn’t have gloves and a Flame strong enough to let him pit himself against all comers. Reborn’s nowhere in range, so it’s not like there’s a Dying Will Bullet about to impact his head, or he can grab Leon and ask the chameleon to turn into a slipper.

Which, now that Tsuna thinks about it, is a stupid thing to hope for. It’s _months_ to Reborn’s appearance, isn’t it?

He pays for his distraction when Kyouya manages to land a blow on one leg that sends white sparks across his vision. _Not broken, not broken,_ Tsuna chants to himself, and forces the pain out of his mind, concentrates on just moving faster.

He manages to duck a tonfa aimed at his _face_ , and gains a few instants of breathing room with it.

“Really though, I’m not sure what I did to deserve this!” Tsuna says, more to himself than to the prefect. Kyouya doesn’t dignify the comment with any response beyond another tonfa heading straight for his head. Not that Tsuna expected much else.

Eventually, as the blows rain down, one after another, Tsuna decides to save his breath and stops protesting the unfairness of it all in favor of simply doing his best to _get out of the way_. He’s not very good, not compared to the other, and he’s going to have new bruises to go with the old tonight.

Still, in its own, bizarre way, it’s almost fun. Exhilarating, pushing past his limits and his fear, riding the adrenaline like a thunderbolt out of the clear blue sky. When he’s dancing around Kyouya’s strikes, there’s nothing _but_ the dance. The other’s whispers become indistinguishable from his own thoughts, and as much as it hurts to be struck, there’s more than enough compensation in the joy of avoiding a tonfa by a paper’s width.

 _Is this why Kyouya and Xanxus were always going at it?_ He wonders, wincing as he takes the full impact of one blow across his wrist and forearm. Kyouya’s other tonfa whistles past in a blur of silver, and the dent it leaves in the earth makes Tsuna more than certain that in spite of the way his fingers feel suspiciously numb, he made the right split-second choice there. It makes him want to laugh with the heady joy of having done something _right_ for once.

Still, Tsuna can hear the murmurs of the other students, can see them heading into the building, and the school bell is ringing out.

A frantic dive to the left, just barely evading a blurring tonfa strike to the ribs, and he’s suddenly out of Kyouya’s range. Rolling to his feet, Tsuna shakes his head, and calls out, a little frantic, “I’ve got to go, Hibari-san! Otherwise I’ll be late for class!”

For a second it looks like Kyouya’s going to attack anyway, but then he snorts and lowers his weapons. Tsuna, breathing heavily, bows slightly to the prefect and then runs for his classroom, hoping to beat the tardy bell.

He makes it, by the skin of his teeth, and when he drops into his seat, he’s exhausted, out of breath and hurting. Hana gives him a worried look, and Tsuna answers her with an apologetic smile and a shrug. It’s not as though he has any control over Kyouya, for all that he’s been something of a protective detail lately.

Kyoko frowns at him, and he shakes his head at her, trying to tell her without words that his injuries aren’t so bad. He aches, all over, and his fingers are still a bit numb, but he’s giddy too, and it takes a great deal of effort to keep adrenaline-fueled giggles in. Already, he’s getting enough odd looks from more than half the class. Since Kyouya staged his ambush right in front of the school doors, the number of people who _didn’t_ see Tsuna doing his best to hold his own are probably in the minority.

The adrenaline high fades under the weight of so many odd looks and considering stares, and Tsuna sighs, and turns his eyes to his textbook. He’s still scrambling to catch up from missing almost an entire week of school, and maybe if he just ignores all the staring they’ll eventually all find better things to look at.

Both his own experience with Namimori gossip and the other’s knowledge of being the center of rumor and scandal on a much greater scale say that it’s unlikely people will stop staring for at least a few days.

* * *

Eventually the dodging sessions--they can’t be sparring if Tsuna doesn’t have a weapon of his own, Tsuna tells himself. Right? Right.--become commonplace enough that they stop being the first topic of conversation among Namimori’s students. They’re still common gossip material, to Tsuna’s despair, but at least he isn’t being stared at by absolutely everyone anymore. It doesn’t help that when Tsuna’s attention slips, Kyouya leaves bruises all over his _face_.

He had to go to the nurse once, because he caught a blow to the face that ended up with a bloody nose and a black eye, and the experience was surreal on several levels. First among them was the lack of having to cajole Shamal into treating him. Second was the idea that Namimori Middle even _had_ a nurse before Shamal took up the position.

That day was weird. The blood all over his uniform was cause for another dodging session _after_ school, for “disgracing the uniform of Namimori Middle” because Kyouya’s a bloodthirsty _lunatic_ sometimes, but it was good. And Tsuna can’t believe he’s applying that word to a day where he got beaten up twice by the head delinquent of his school, but it _was_.

He had the black eye for days, and getting the bloodstains out of his uniform was a pain, but he couldn’t help _grinning_ anyway, because it wasn’t fun.  It was _alive_ and it was _real_ , and it was a thousand times better than being bullied.

It also started rumors that he was Kyouya’s _heir_ in some fashion, and that when Kyouya moved on to high school Tsuna would be the new guardian of Namimori Middle. Which is ridiculous, firstly because Kyouya is going to have to be pried out of Namimori Middle with a Self Defense Force unit, and secondly because if Kyouya was going to leave his school to anyone, it certainly wouldn’t be _Tsuna._

He’s caught considering looks from a couple of the athletes though, and that’s almost _worse_ than the glances gossip brought him--he doesn’t _want_ to be recruited onto a sports team. He wants to go back to normal, bottom of the class, playing video games alone, emphatically _not_ the focus of Kyouya’s attention.

Well, he thinks, as Hana and Kyoko sit down by his desk to spend lunch with him, maybe not _all_ the way back to normal. Having friends is nice, after all.

* * *

Of course, it all goes to hell a few days later. Tsuna should have expected this. It’s the way his life _works_ , why was he not prepared for things to become awful and (more) dangerous and also _completely ridiculous_?

He’s barely gotten into the school--somehow avoiding Kyouya--when two boys grab him by the arms, telling him something that doesn’t quite manage to penetrate the morning haze over his thoughts. Tsuna thinks that they’re members of one of the sports teams, but it’s difficult to tell. They’re hauling him through the halls at a frankly frightening speed, and he’s not exactly sure what he’s done to deserve it.

When he’s finally dragged to a stop, Tsuna breathes a sigh of relief. Then he takes a look around and has to try very hard to keep from shrieking. The dojo, the crowd of students and Mochida Kensuke standing in his gear in the center of the crowd--Tsuna knows this situation. The last time he saw it, the circumstances were rather different, but it’s an unmistakable moment.

The memories pulse _Reborn, dying will, judgement, Kyoko (sorry)_ , and Tsuna shakes his head, trying to clear his thoughts. There isn’t any time to be lost in memory--the kendo club members are hauling him right in front of Mochida, and Tsuna can’t help but wonder if the speech is going to be the same this time around.

“There you are, you useless stalker creep!” Mochida says, and Tsuna tries not to flinch at the volume with which the kendo club captain is shouting. The dojo isn’t _that_ big, he doesn’t need to be so loud. And, ‘useless stalker creep’? That’s almost pathetically uncreative. At least last time ‘perverted stalker’ was at least vaguely accurate, if you had no idea what was going on.

Which, at that point, nobody did.

This time around, if anyone in this room’s stalking Kyoko, it’s probably Mochida. The reversal of their relative positions almost makes Tsuna laugh, but he doesn’t _actually_ want to make this worse for himself than it already is.

“God may forgive you, but I won’t!” Mochida declares. “I shall smite you!”

Tsuna bites his tongue, only barely managing to quash the urge to sigh at the upperclassman’s dramatics.  It probably would have been easier if another sports team had abducted him. Why couldn’t it have been the baseball team? At the very least, bringing Takeshi’s brand of insanity into the mix would be fun.

“Since you’re a novice, I’ll make the rules easy, so even an idiot like you can understand,” Mochida continues, oblivious to how unimpressed his audience is. “If you can get a point off of me, you win! If you can’t, then I do.”

Tsuna winces a little, as the memories remind him of how the other won this particular match. He’s had his hair pulled, and he can’t quite imagine how painful it must have been for Mochida. The pun is a bad one too, though the circumstances of it make Tsuna almost want to giggle. Clearly, his Dying Will has a sense of humor.

Mochida seems to take his flinch as a sign of timidity, because his smirk widens. “The prize for the winner is, of course, Sasagawa Kyoko!”

At that, Tsuna’s idle contemplation of the memories is over. Mochida’s words burn under his skin, and Tsuna wants to snarl, though he knows he doesn’t have the strength to back up such an expression. But Kyoko is her own person, no prize, nothing to be _won_ like this utter _jerk_ seems to think.

Letting out a slow breath through his nose Tsuna tries to calm the fury that is one part outraged friendship, and one part mafia don furious at the slight to one of his people. When he feels like he has a grip on his temper, Tsuna glances at Kyoko.

“Sorry about the fuss,” he says with an apologetic smile, though he’s not sure she can hear him. She smiles though, and Hana raises a considering eyebrow his way.

Taking another slow breath, Tsuna takes the gear the kendo club offers. He might as well _try_ to do this properly, like the other never did. As he pulls it on, Tsuna musters his will. It’s not the same as a bullet to the head or the release of every limiter on his body, but it doesn’t have to be. This will be enough, because Tsuna _needs_ it to be enough.

The gear is weighted, certainly, but not as much as Mochida thinks it is. Maybe the members of the kendo club just aren’t as strong as they think they are. It would fit with the way Namimori Middle never manages any sort of showing in competitions.

The gear bears down on Tsuna, but movement is certainly not _impossible_. Just somewhat more difficult than usual. Given how much of the time gravity is Tsuna’s enemy already, he thinks this should feel a lot less manageable.

Except...

Except he hasn’t fallen over in days. Not really. He’s tripped, and _been_ tripped, but he always managed to catch himself before hitting the ground. His feet haven’t tangled in empty air for some time now. He hasn’t been paying attention to his feet, to where he is, and yet he’s not fallen _once_ since--

\--since the memories changed everything. Which doesn’t make sense, because the memories aren’t clear from this time. The way the other moves in memory is eight years and many inches away.

Tsuna shakes his head, sharply. It’s not worth worrying about--he has more than enough on his plate already, with Mochida snarling in front of him and the whole school looking on.

The shinai is heavy in his hand, and Tsuna takes a deep breath through his nose. The memories know this situation, though admittedly with far more drama, courtesy of one infant hitman.

It feels a bit like cheating, to know this whole situation so well.

Still, since this fight is not fair, was never meant to be fair, Tsuna lets the memories whisper to him, let them show him how to hold the shinai properly, how to ready his body to move at need. He can see the shape Mochida grew into once, and how very little of him survived the ambush. He can see how long it took Takeshi to drive him from the weak-hearted boy standing in front of Tsuna to a man who could be trusted to lead his own squads.

Mochida isn’t going to want to capitulate, but Tsuna thinks, at least, he can avoid letting the older boy land anything that could be remotely considered a hit. The periodic dodging sessions with Kyouya are at least good for that much. It’ll be difficult, with so much extra weight pulling him down, but Tsuna thinks he can handle it. He has to.

He takes his position for the start of the match, and Mochida barks out a cruel laugh. “Only an idiot would think he had a chance against me, the captain of the kendo club!” Tsuna just rolls his eyes, squares his shoulders against the heavy gear, and waits for Mochida to get to the point.

Then the bout begins, and Tsuna almost yelps at the sudden attack Mochida launches, before the memories, vague though they are, guide him out of the way of the strike. The other whispers all the things learned in almost a decade spent consorting with swordsmen, and Tsuna _listens_ , because this might not be life or death, but it matters too much to fight blind.

The armor and shinai impede his movements, but Tsuna focuses, lets the other teach him some small morsel of strategy, and shifts out of the way of Mochida’s strikes, even as he makes his own, flailing attempts.

The judge, the memories remind Tsuna, is another one of the kendo club members. It’s going to take something undeniable to get him to raise the flag for the point. Tsuna almost sighs because at this point it’s beginning to look like his entire life is going to be one impossible feat after another, strung together with moments of quiet insanity. The fact that the other doesn’t seem to think there’s anything wrong with this is just one more sign that Tsuna is _doomed_.

His body’s almost moving on autopilot as he thinks, but one strike coming far too close reminds him that if he wants to _win_ this match, he’s going to have to keep his mind on-task.

Shoving all of his extraneous thoughts out of his mind, Tsuna shifts his weight onto the balls of his feet, and lets himself focus, lets the world come down to the shinai coming towards him and the movement of Mochida’s body, the flicker of his eyes, the way he leads with his shoulders.

The other is silent, and Tsuna hasn’t felt so much _himself_ since he woke up with memories of a life he still hasn’t lived. This is important, and it echoes the memories, but this is _his_. His fight to win, or to lose. And suddenly Tsuna can _see_ it, that perfect opening in Mochida’s defense. It’s just a matter of widening it, just a matter of breaking that crack wide open and he’ll _have_ the match, beyond anyone’s ability to doubt.

When it comes again, it’s just a matter of taking advantage of the opening to throw Mochida’s defense out of balance and then getting in close.

The opening flashes again, and Tsuna moves like he’s practiced it a thousand times. Dodge, catch Mochida’s shinai on his own, push the block right, throw Mochida’s defense wide open. Step and step again, shift grip and _strike_.

The hit reverberates through Tsuna’s wrists and hands, and he winces a little, hoping he hasn’t caused permanent damage.

Mochida stands still for a moment, stunned, and then crumples to the gym floor. Tsuna pants, and hopes that his strike--hilt of the shinai to the side of Mochida’s head, a movement he can’t help but think would be easier with a shorter blade or a handgun--hasn’t caused any permanent damage.

A glance at the judge shows that his red flag still hasn’t been raised, and Tsuna can’t stop himself from sighing. Sometimes he doesn’t understand people in Namimori.

Laying the shinai aside, he bends to check Mochida’s pulse. It’s steady against his fingers, and the kendo captain’s probably should wake up in a couple of minutes.

“Are you done being a jerk?” Hana’s voice cuts across the quiet of the gym. “Because even I can tell that Tsuna won that match.” The irritation in her voice is almost palpable, and the judge shakes all over and finally raises the flag, looking a little intimidated.

“Red,” he calls, and Tsuna sighs, starting to pull off the weighted kendo gear as the students watching begin to murmur to each other. It’s probably going to be the talk of the school for _ages_. And they’d just started to quiet down about the way Kyouya still corners him and tries to beat him up.

Sometimes Tsuna wonders why he bothers to get up in the morning anymore.

* * *

After that, the rumors follow Tsuna for days, and it would be funny, if it wasn’t Tsuna’s _life_. Some of them are just plain ridiculous--Tsuna has not been replaced by a clone, a shapeshifting alien or an evil twin--but others hit a little too close to home.

Secretly the student of a world renowned assassin, tired of hiding his skills? Yakuza heir? Time traveler? They’re only murmured about on the fringes, since most of the students of Namimori Middle think that they’re too stupid to be real, but that doesn’t stop Tsuna from wincing every time he hears them.

Kyoko and Hana are a blessing--it’s hard to listen in to the whispers around him, when they’re keeping him busy with conversations about homework and projects for this or that class, or about new shops that are opening downtown. It’s soothing too, to listen to them and to talk about absolutely nothing.

They barely leave him alone, and it’s _nice_ , to have people around. Since Hana began her quest to figure out what makes him tick, she and Kyoko have been walking home with him, and it’s been cheerful, even if it might take a little longer than just walking straight home might. Hana’s house is only few blocks further from the school than Tsuna’s, she usually accompanies him to his door before heading on to her own home.

It’s nice to have such good friends, for once, and the other likes the sensation of having trusted people around.

One day, though, for the first time in over week and a half, Tsuna arrives home by himself, and can’t help being incredibly thankful that for once, he and Hana ended up going their separate ways.

There’s laundry flapping in the breeze all over the front yard, and he knows that if she’d caught sight of it, Hana would have had the whole sorry story out of him in seconds. Fortunately, she needed to make a stop at a corner store, and they parted ways there.

Looking over the yard, Tsuna sighs, rubbing his forehead. As if his life wasn’t complicated enough _already_ , now there’s _this_?

Shifting his backpack a little higher on his shoulders, he steps towards the front door. He doesn’t have to stay, doesn’t want to, not with his idiot father in attendance, but if he’s going to spend his time out of the house, he needs some necessities first.

Quickly putting together a mental list, Tsuna slip through the door as quietly as he can, breathing out a silent sigh of relief when no one instantly notices him.

Getting into his room and throwing the things on his list into his backpack and an extra bag goes smoothly, though the packing job is less than efficient. Still, it’s fast and that’s all that matters right now. The less time he spends in the house the less chance he has of needing to interact with Iemitsu.

Unfortunately, his luck runs out halfway between the stairs and the front door.

“Tsu-chan!” an excited and distinctly unwelcome voice sings out, and Tsuna has to force himself not to wince.

Turning his head, he sees Iemitsu, sprawled across the floor and looking like he’s just awoken from an inebriated nap. He doesn’t even try to count the piles of bottles near the man, just wrinkles his nose and wonders exactly why Iemitsu ever comes home, if he has to be drunk off his ass to enjoy it.

“Dad,” he says politely, with a slight head-tilt towards the man. “Nice to see you again.”

While Iemitsu is visibly processing the words, Tsuna makes a lunge for the door and escapes into the outdoors.

Several blind alleys and approximately thirty minutes later, he smiles, as brightly as he knows how, when Hana opens the door to her house.

“Do you mind putting me up for a night or two? My idiot father is home.”

In the privacy of his own mind, Tsuna will admit that the gobsmacked look on Hana’s face is more than worth the grilling she’s going to give him for this.

* * *

“So your father’s suddenly appeared?”

“Yes.”

“After, what? Four years?”

“Two, I think. Maybe three.”

“And you decided that absolutely anything was better staying at home with your father who you haven’t seen for two or three years?”

Hana’s trying to understand, she really is, but this is Sawada making less sense than usual and not even seeming to _enjoy_ it. His father returns after years without contact, and his first reaction is to leave the house as quickly as possible? It just doesn’t make sense. If Hana’s father showed up after disappearing for two years, Hana’d probably cry on him. And then yell. And possibly cry some more. Kyoko would probably throw a party. It’d be an excuse to buy herself cake for _weeks_.

Sawada shrugs. “Not absolutely anything. I’m not quite that desperate.” The unspoken _yet_ rests in the air between them. There’s something in how absolutely flat his expression is that says that this whole thing with his father is far more complicated than Hana realizes. Or Sawada is willing to admit. Which is interesting. Hana always thought that Sawada’s relationship with his family was fairly straightforward. He always seemed happy when heading into his house.

Or maybe it was that his relationship with his _mother_ was the good one. Since Sawada’s father’s been gone for the last two years, his expression when going home might not have anything to do with the mysterious Sawada patriarch. Either way, his expression says he’s not willing to explain further. It’s a shame, but Hana’s already learned quite a few things about Sawada she wasn’t expecting to today. What she’s gotten will have to be enough, though.

Sighing, she leans back in her chair. Sometimes you win the war by deciding to fight your battles another day.

“Okay, fine, I’ll talk to Mom. She probably won’t mind putting you up in the guestroom for a night or two, but after that she’ll probably want you to go home and at least talk to your mother or some such.” Hana isn’t exactly sure what her mother’s reaction to the story of Sawada Tsunayoshi is going to be, but she expects it will be dramatic. Hana’s mother doesn’t do things in moderation.

Another shrug, this one accompanied by a small, self-deprecating smile. “I can probably swing a night or two somewhere else, after your parents kick me out. And if worst comes to worst, I’ll find a warm corner of the park for a night.”

Hana blinks. Sawada’s expression remains thoughtful and slightly amused, as though contemplating his options for sleeping outside is somehow _amusing_. She had known he was weird, but that was just a whole new level of _crazy_ and _stupid_.

“Don’t you dare sleep in the park, you idiot. It’s April, it’ll rain on you and then you’ll get hypothermia and die on me,” Hana snaps, glaring at Sawada. He blinks at her, surprised, and she continues. “If you’re that desperate, bribe Hibari with more chances to beat you up. He can probably afford to keep you away from your father for another night or two, and he likes beating you up, the freak.”

Sawada tilts his head, as though the thought hadn’t even occurred to him. “That’s...a really good idea, thank you Kurokawa-san.”

Hana rolls her eyes. _Boys_. They never think of the obvious solutions to their problems.

She still doesn’t understand why Sawada’s so desperate to keep away from his father though. He’s not _scared_ , Hana doesn’t think. There’s nothing like that heart-stopping terror he showed two weeks ago in his face. If it weren’t for the odd undercurrents, Hana would think that he’s _annoyed_ about his father being around.

But there _are_ odd undercurrents, and Hana can’t even begin to parse them. She bites her tongue, and doesn’t pry. Right now, she thinks it would do her more harm than good, in her pursuit of what makes Sawada tick.

So instead she talks to her mother and gets permission for Sawada to stay over, sets him up in the guest bedroom, and orders him to pull out his homework as soon as he’s set himself up, so they can go over it together.

She refuses to have one of the few people she associates with continue to sit at the bottom of class rankings. And she’s seen his notes, the few times he’s forgotten to hide them away before she sat down at his desk for lunch. He’s certainly smarter than he appears, though maybe even he doesn’t realize it.

Still, she and Kyoko will get him past _that_ soon enough. It’ll be their little project, this school year. Haul Sawada Tsunayoshi out of the bottom of the class rankings and the social ladder. It’ll be hard, but it’ll suit Kyoko right down to the black depths of her devious heart, which is always fun. And Hana’s been missing a challenge, lately.

She frowns a bit, though, thinking. It doesn’t quite sit right, now that she and Sawada and Kyoko have formed this trio, to _not_ tell Kyoko about the way Sawada has showed up at her door, the way Sawada’s eyes flicker when he speaks of his father.

It also doesn’t feel right to share Sawada’s home life with other people, not without him knowing. He didn’t tell her in confidence, but it just feels somehow _off_.

Huffing in exasperation, Hana presses her knuckles to her forehead and then goes in search of Sawada.

If he’s going to keep messing her up like this, she’s going to get her own back by drilling him on physics until his eyes damn well _bleed_. She saw his grades on the last test.

* * *

Staying with Hana is interesting--Tsuna’s never quite sure how to talk to her parents, but they seem welcoming enough, though her father doesn’t seem to understand why Tsuna would prefer not to be at home. His wife just looked Tsuna over that first night, like she could look right down inside him, and then sniffed and turned away. She’s made no move to ask Tsuna why he’s avoiding his house. It would be refreshing if it wasn’t unnerving.

Tsuna completely understands where Hana gets the terrifying practicality and the ability to cut directly to the heart of things, now.

Still, even with the awkwardness, it’s a thousand times better than having to deal with his useless slob of a father. Really, lying around, drunk off his ass, with the bottles on the floor beside him--that was just asking for Lambo or Fuuta or I-pin to take a drink and--

Tsuna stops that thought, confused, because it doesn’t seem quite right. He tests it out slowly the bottles, the possible risk, the image of I-pin or Lambo or--

That’s where it’s wrong, he realizes, pinning down the oddness. I-pin and Lambo and Fuuta aren’t around yet. But the thought, the concern, it didn’t _sound_ like the other, who always sounds older, more tired, and is usually so much more focused on handling what is immediately at hand. But he _knows_ that the children aren’t in the house. He knows he hasn’t met them yet. It felt _right_ , though, that worry about them. It felt natural, like he’d thought it a thousand times.

What’s _happening_ to him?

Pressing a finger to his forehead, he tries to put the strangeness of his thoughts aside. He needs to do his homework, or Hana will kill him, and worrying about whatever new results the memories have brought won’t do him any good in that regard. Closing his eyes he takes one slow, deep breath, then another, and reopens them, feeling slightly calmer. It’s still worrying, that things are finding their way into his thoughts from that other time, but he can think about it later. He has homework to do.

Scanning the paper in front of him, Tsuna almost smiles. Math. Still not his best subject, but it’s straightforward enough. And at least in this, there’s only one, perfect answer. Starting to rewrite equations on scrap paper, Tsuna thinks that he could get to be very fond of mathematics.

* * *

Two days later, it’s one of those days in late April where the weather can’t quite make up its mind whether to be cloudy or raining. It’s been quiet, for Namimori. The murmurs about Tsuna’s defeat of Mochida are finally settling down a little, and he can almost walk through the halls of the school without feeling the urge to hunch towards the floor and run for cover.

The three of them wandering downtown, as they have a few times before. Afternoons like this have become commonplace since Kyoko decided that she and Tsuna had to be friends.

Eventually they’ll end up at a cafe, and Kyoko will buy cake and Hana will buy coffee, and the conversation will meander. It will deliberately not touch on the recent rumors about Tsuna, and no one will ask Kyoko about who she’s decided to date now that Mochida’s proven himself to be a _jerk_. Hana will allow herself to smile without too much sarcasm.

For now, though, they’re just walking, window-shopping a bit. Tsuna keeps himself a step and a half behind Kyoko and Hana, watching the streets and listening to the conversation.

The girls are discussing the social ladder of Namimori Middle with enough detail to make Bianchi weep with envy. Tsuna is still comfortably an outsider, though no longer the absolute bottom of the heap, so he’s content to listen in and only half-know who and what they’re talking about. Occasionally he can’t help but contribute a thought, and the girls usually appreciate it. If Tsuna sees something, even now, it’s either because it’s so obvious it doesn’t matter who sees it, or it’s being kept so quiet that only the outsiders have a chance to notice. Both kinds of information are useful to Kyoko, in her quietly determined quest to map the entire social order of the school.

Though it’s stopped raining for the moment, Kyoko has her umbrella up just in case. Hana is walking unconcernedly bareheaded, though. Tsuna has a hoodie, himself, but he’s dropped the hood for now, so he doesn’t look too much like he’s attempting to be a delinquent.

It’s a freak gust of wind, in the end, that upsets the comfortable familiarity of the day. It catches them right as Kyoko finishes crossing a street, and rips her umbrella from a lax grip.

It flies for a moment, skipping and tumbling in the wind, before it’s sent straight towards several outdoor cafe tables near the intersection. Kyoko gives chase, and Hana and Tsuna are hard on her heels, but surprise has left them some distance behind. Caught in another gust, it seems for a moment as though the umbrella is going to hit someone. Tsuna flinches, hoping that the fallout won’t be too terrible for Kyoko. And then a strong hand snatches it out of the air, just a few feet from the first of the tables.

Kyoko approaches, babbling apologies, and Tsuna wonders why he ever worried, when Kyoko has always been able to talk her way out of anything, as uncatchable as the morning mist. Assured she’s going to be fine, Tsuna turns his attention to the person who caught the rogue umbrella.

Tall and silver haired, the man’s wearing an impeccable suit and looks like the image of a corporate businessman, but for the length of his hair. It’s an incongruous picture, Tsuna thinks, eyeing the man, the fine suit and the pink umbrella with a pattern of cakes. It would be funny, but Tsuna knows this man too well. Trying to be subtle, he shivers and flips his hood over his head, as though a little cold. He’d like to avoid being recognized, if this man knows what he looks like.

To that end, he hangs back even more than usual and shoves his hands deeper into his pockets, as the man finishes closing the umbrella and hands it back to Kyoko with a smile, brushing off her apologies. Hunching his shoulders, Tsuna stops looking at the man, instead furtively examining the rest of the street, and hopes not to be noticed as anything other than nervous.

“Perhaps try to be a little more careful next time, young lady?” the old man jokes. “I’m a little old and creaky for such scares.”

Kyoko apologizes again, smiling brightly, but Tsuna barely keeps down a snort. Old, certainly. But too creaky to catch umbrellas? Certainly _not._

He can’t help but give the man an uncharitable, narrow-eyed look for the lie, though he tries to keep his face in the shadow of his hood.

Really, this is getting to be too much. What in the world has happened to bring this kind of attention down on Namimori? Now that he’s started looking, there are all kinds of people around who are clearly out of place. People who shouldn’t be in Namimori for months or years more are sitting at cafe tables, or looking in shop windows down the street. One is even napping on a bench.

He’s almost expecting to see Takeshi walking down the street with Shigure Kintoki and his face wiped clean of a smile, or to hear something explode in the distance. The other never saw some of these people unless things had gone _catastrophically_ wrong.

Hana and Kyoko start walking again, and Tsuna follows, still turning things over in his head as he walks. Eventually, he stops in the middle of the sidewalk. Hana reaches back without even looking for him, narrow fingers wrapping around his wrist and tugging.

When he doesn’t move, she gives him a look both concerned and threatening. Tsuna sighs and shakes his head at her. It’s tempting to just leave this to ride, but….

Somehow or another he started feeling _responsible_ , and that’s probably going to get him killed. _Again_. He never learns.

He breaks Hana’s grip on his wrist with a quick twist, and smiles at her and Kyoko.

“You go on without me.” Tsuna says, after a split-second of scrambling for a half-truthful cover story. “I just realized that guy is actually an old friend of the family. I haven’t seen him in years, so it took me a little bit to realize why he looked familiar. Do you mind if I duck out? I’d like to spend some time catching up with him.”

Hana gives him a deeply suspicious look, and he’s going to be paying for this tomorrow, he just _knows it._ Maybe he should move where he’s hiding for now? Kyouya would be willing to put him up for a night, if he’s quiet. On the other hand, if he runs, she’s only going to get worse about it.

Kyoko looks him over for a second, before she laughs and says, “Go ahead Tsuna-kun! You don’t like cake anyway. It’ll be like a girls’ day.”

Tsuna forces his smile a little wider. “Have fun, you two,” he says, and waves them off.

Once they’re out of sight and earshot, he lets the smile drop off of his face and turns to walk back to the cafe, pulling his hood down and tucking his hands into his pockets. The old man looks up from his coffee with an expression of deep surprise when Tsuna reaches his table, which turns to suspicion when Tsuna passes him by.

Instead, he makes for the table at the center of the familiar strangers, where another old man sits, coffee cup and an empty plate before him. A cane leans against the man’s chair, and Tsuna can _feel_ the weight of a dozen stares on him.

It’s nothing to the weight of presence and Will that the old man he’s approaching exudes without thinking.

Tsuna breathes, and reaches inside himself for just a little bit of the heat that the memories have taught him so well. It’s elusive, but something responds to him, and he can feel the heaviness growing easier on his shoulders. The other whispers to him, and he listens, lets it guide his posture, his expressions.

He takes a moment, just looking. It’s impolite, but it might put this intruder off balance, and Tsuna needs every advantage he can get here. No matter what he does, or says, these people can squish him like a bug. It’s not a comforting thought, and Tsuna clamps down on it, instead using precious seconds to make sure he has what he wants to say right. Italian comes easily, but this is important and he needs to _not mess up_.

Then he forces himself to relax, leans deliberately against one of the free chairs at the table and smiles his most threateningly cheerful smile, ignoring the way several men and women at other tables twitch at the sight.

“Allora,” he says, his tone light and conversational. “Che cosa stai facendo in Namimori, Nono?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from "Level Up"
> 
> Sorry for how long this took, but I can't promise chapter six will be much faster--hopefully I'll manage something respectable soon.
> 
> And let me know if I missed any errors in this chapter, as I'm posting it kind of quickly!


	6. your 2.0, your rebirth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally the boy opens his mouth, but what he says isn’t anything Timoteo expects.
> 
> “Well,” the boy says, and his Italian is flawless, with only the slightest hint of an accent Timoteo can’t place lingering on the words. “What are you doing in Namimori, Ninth?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter feels a bit choppy, but it's finally here! Thanks, as always, to [ahoderahayato](ahoderahayato.tumblr.com) and [babybirdblues](babybirdblues.tumblr.com) for the beta.

Timoteo blinks at the boy as he approaches--taking in the cargo pants and wild brown hair, as well as the orange and white hoodie, the hood lowered to reveal the boy’s face, expression set and deadly even as he weaves through tables that seat Vongola operatives with consummate carelessness.

As the boy finished his approach, he finally meets Timoteo’s eyes, as he leans against one of the free chairs at Timoteo’s table. He smiles, like a knife in the sunlight, flashing his teeth and his bearing whispers _threat_ without his cheerful expression slipping in the least. The whole look is a mask, Timoteo knows. He can see the faint cracks, and the way the boy’s eyes are gleaming with intent that is out of place with the smile. They’re almost amber, and luminous in a way Timoteo doesn’t usually see from people not actively raising Flame.

Finally the boy opens his mouth, but what he says isn’t anything Timoteo expects.

“Well,” the boy says, and his Italian is flawless, with only the slightest hint of an accent Timoteo can’t place lingering on the words. “What are you doing in Namimori, Ninth?”

If the Italian is surprising, hearing his title is a shock like no other. It takes an act of will for Timoteo to keep from flinching a little at it, so unexpected in this place. But refrain he does, and only permits himself the slightest tightening of his fingers around his coffee cup, and the reflexive, feather-light draw on his Flame.

The boy doesn’t so much as _twitch_ , even though Timoteo knows that the air has gone suddenly heavy with Will, edged with the barest hint of Flame. Even that low saturation should make it difficult for anyone to think--Timoteo has had years to refine his use of Flame to shift atmosphere. The boy is completely unaffected. Perfectly calm, his only concession to the sudden change in the air is a slow blink and a breath. As if in revenge, he drags out the chair he’s leaning on, scraping the metal feet over concrete to produce a deliberately ear-grating sound, and seats himself, all easy arrogance.

“I have a vested interest,” the boy continues, still in his faintly-accented Italian, “in keeping your kind out of town, so I rather would like an honest answer to that question, if you don’t mind.”

Timoteo meets the boy’s eyes, and they _are_ amber, flecked with the faintest hints of orange. The cheerfully threatening smile on his face doesn’t slip in the slightest as Timoteo applies more and more Flame. Eventually the Ninth boss of the Vongola has to ease up in his Will, leaning back in his chair. There is no twitch from the boy, no hint of surrender, and some of his guards are beginning to shift uncomfortably. This necessitates a change of tactics. No longer strong-arming the boy, but negotiating.

“It seems rather presumptuous to me that you’d ask me such a question,” he counters, “when I don’t even know your name.”

The boy tilts his head. “I’m Sawada Tsunayoshi,” he says, and his smile sharpens to a razors edge for a split-second as Timoteo fights to keep from dropping his coffee cup. “I believe you know my father rather well.”

Fighting the urge to swear loudly and creatively, Timoteo raises an eyebrow at Tsunayoshi and replaces his coffee cup on the table. “I suppose I do. And that makes me wonder how you know who _I_ am.”

Tsunayoshi shrugs, his smile fading, and says nothing. Timoteo sighs. Young people are always so difficult to deal with.

“Very well. We should be gone in about two weeks, perhaps less.”

An irritated noise, and Tsunayoshi gives Timoteo an unamused glance. “I don’t recall asking you how long you’re going to be in town. I want to know _why you’re here_.”

Timoteo picks up his coffee once more, and takes a sip, considering his answer. Being evasive is clearly not getting him anything but more hostility. Thinking, he looks Tsunayoshi over. The boy’s shoulders are tense, now that he’s letting go of his facade of cheerful unconcern. He’s _angry_ that the Vongola is in Namimori, in his territory.

Timoteo should have guessed that from the opening salvo, but Iemitsu’s son has a way of making himself difficult to read by being far, far too easy to read. There are a dozen trace emotions crossing the boy’s face at any time, and it’s hard to figure out what’s genuine, and what is only what Tsunayoshi wants people to see.

Finally, he sighs, puts his coffee down and meets Tsunayoshi’s gaze head on. The boy blinks, surprised, for a moment, before giving Timoteo his full attention. Clearly Tsunayoshi wasn’t expecting honesty, but Timoteo didn’t manage becoming one of the most successful mafia bosses in history by avoiding the things that work. It runs against the ordinary grain of negotiation, but being honest does have its place, after all.

“Your mother called Iemitsu, saying she was worried about you. Your father was concerned, and felt the need to come home for a time,” he explains, “I thought I might see the sights while he spent time with his family.”

Tsunayoshi’s lips quirk into something that might charitably be called a smile. “The Vongola Ninth visiting this small town on nothing more than a whim?” he asks, and he leans back into his chair with insolent grace. “I’m sure.”

The amount of sarcasm the boy managed to fit into just two words has Timoteo reluctantly impressed. “I am also a father,” he points out, mostly to see what reaction Tsunayoshi has. “I understand his need to make sure you’re okay.”

Tsunayoshi makes a brushing-away gesture with one hand, and seems to be only barely restraining his urge to roll his eyes. Timoteo blinks, because it’s a gesture that reminds him all too much of his sons.

“He doesn’t need to make sure of anything, where I’m concerned.” Tsunayoshi says, dismissive, before the look in his eyes turns speculative and he sets an elbow on the table, leaning his chin on one hand.

“A father, huh?” he says, and there’s poison lurking behind those words, in the casual way he looks at Timoteo. “How did you fuck up?”

Timoteo can’t restrain his flinch, and Tsunayoshi’s eyes harden even as his mouth curves into something that might, technically, be a smile. “Yeah. That’s what I thought,” he says, and the look in his eyes is far too old for his face and terribly bitter. “Mafia men never do make very good fathers.”

With that, the boy stands and gives him a once-over glance, before sliding his chair back under the table with another teeth-grinding screech.

“If you don’t mind telling Iemitsu for something for me,” Tsunayoshi says, and his voice is suddenly almost saccharine-sweet, as he tucks his hands into his pockets and slouches, “would you let him know that no one needs him here, and it’d be appreciated if he’d stop breaking into our lives whenever it’s convenient for him?”

With that, the boy turns on his heel and walks away, as though he’s said nothing remarkable. He passes by Coyote without so much as a twitch, and shoulder-checks Visconti when the approaching Cloud Guardian doesn’t move out of his way fast enough.

Timoteo watches as his Guardians approach and his only hope of an heir blends into the afternoon crowd, eventually turning a corner and vanishing from sight. Both of his guardians move to stand by Timoteo’s chair, and he sighs, listening to the humming of their Flame to calm the frustration young Tsunayoshi has caused.

“What a kid,” Coyote says quietly, once the boy’s out of earshot. “And ice cold about Iemitsu too.”

Visconti snorts. “The idiot hasn’t been home in what, three years? I’d be pissed off too. Iemitsu was only there for a week or two before he booked it out, even.”

Timoteo taps his fingers on the table, and says, mildly, “We did call him, Visconti. He didn’t just run away.”

An expressive shrug. Timoteo doesn’t have to look at his Cloud to know that the man is rolling his eyes in irritation. Iemitsu is very good at finding legitimate excuses to get away from the things he’s afraid of.”

Coyote snorts. “The Young Lion? Afraid of his _family_?”

“Terrified,” Visconti says dryly. “It’s worse than that time in Venezia.” Timoteo’s lips twitch with the faintest beginnings of an amused smile--it _was_ funny, seeing how quickly Iemitsu managed to extract himself from the city, faced with the Poison Scorpion--before he sighs quietly.

Tsunayoshi’s brittle, sharp edged smile, and the casual, knowing way he said it. _Mafia men never do make very good fathers_.

If he keeps that deadly ability to strike for the jugular with nothing more than a few words, he’ll make a terrifying new Don Vongola. It almost makes Timoteo think he would be leaving his people in good hands.

He cannot say that to his Guardians, who have managed to remain so much moral than he has. Instead he rolls his shoulders, trying to rid himself of the twinge of tension those words caused, and says, “Unfortunately for Iemitsu, nothing I’ve seen matches with what he says about young Tsunayoshi. In fact, it almost completely invalidates it.”

Coyote shifts uneasily. “You’re going to do it then? The kid’s not even fifteen, right? Seems a little cruel.”

Timoteo sighs again. He’s been sighing a lot lately, getting old, perhaps. He should be long retired, tending the lands his mother left him. Massimo should wear the Sky ring that weighs so heavily on Timoteo’s hand.

“What other choice do I have?” he says, slanting a glance at Coyote, _willing_ his Guardian to understand. “My sons are dead or ineligible, and Tsunayoshi is the only other person who could take the rings. Iemitsu can’t, by tradition, and he _won’t_ because at heart he’s a coward.”

Visconti rests a hand on his shoulder, and Timoteo leans back in his chair, taking comfort from the contact.

“We know, ‘Teo,” the Cloud says, and he sounds as tired as Timoteo feels. They’ve all been at this for far too long. They’ve lived the longest of any Vongola Boss and his Guardians, the three of them, and it’s taken its toll.

Coyote rolls his shoulders, the motion accompanied by a faint grinding complaint as his mechanical arm completes the motion under protest. “It’ll be a while before Reborn’s back in contact, if you’re still wanting him to tutor the kid.”

It’s a peace offering, and Timoteo smiles faintly, sadly. “That’s good. He deserves a little more time to be a child, before we deny it to him further.”

 

* * *

 

Tsuna forces himself to walk with at least the _appearance_ of calm, until he can turn a corner and break the line of sight. Someone will be watching him as he leaves. If not Timoteo himself, then one of the guardians, and they might all be old men, but they lived long enough to get that way, and that means something in the Mafia.

Once he’s turned a corner though, into quiet side-street that’s fortunately empty of suspicious strangers, he slumps back against the brick wall of the closest building and tries his hardest to not hyperventilate himself into another panic attack. Focusing on the roughness of the wall through his shirt and jacket, the coldness against the back of his head only does so much, but he does his best to clamp down on the shriek of his fear, the absolute terror of _that was Vongola the Ninth that was Grandfather you_ owe _him_. It’s hard, and he clenches his fists, focusing on the spark of pain as his nails dig crescents into his palms. He has to stay here. Without Hana and Kyoko or Kyouya around, he’s not safe if he forgets where he is.

Still, he remembers the crushing threat in the Flame-touched air, the way Timoteo’s Will made the atmosphere live with danger and wonders how he ever seemed unaffected.

The other laughs dismissively, and tells Tsuna about making devoted enemies willing to negotiate with a much lighter, subtler touch. About making traitors sweat until they broke with the barest application of endless finesse. About using Flame for more than just intimidation.

 _Sloppy_ , the other says, in short, _sloppy_ , and, _We can do better_.

Raising his hands, Tsuna presses the heels of his palms to his eyes until starbursts bloom behind his eyelids, and tries his best to _think_. Getting lost in memory isn’t helping, and neither is helpless panicking over what he can’t change. He said the words, and he can’t take them back.

But… That was the Vongola Ninth, Timoteo, _grandfather_ , and the memories mean that Tsuna can’t help but love him.

He can’t help the drawn-tight outrage either.

 _“I am also a father_ ,” Tsuna hears again, and the Ninth’s voice was all sincerity, and he can’t help his flinch at the wave of memory-- _scarlet and stripes, hurt them first and you can never be hurt, take from them before they take from you, and never believe a word_ \--that cuts right through him. The other bares teeth over the wounds that the Ninth inflicted on one of his, and Tsuna can’t help but agree.

In the end, he doesn’t regret what he said, not really. There’s too much in his head now--the emotion-memory of forcing his way past Xanxus’ defenses, of pressing Flame against Flame until Xanxus _screamed_ , all in the name of healing hurt that should never have been dealt--he can taste it too vividly to let it go. Tsuna’s not exactly an authority, but he’s pretty sure that fathers aren’t supposed to leave those kinds of wounds.

In that at least, he supposes he’s lucky. He only got a father who doesn’t actually want to be one, as opposed to one who’s capable of thoughtless cruelty.

When he gets back to Hana’s house, she’s waiting for him, seated on the front porch, and the dark expression on her face makes him want to cry. He’s already _exhausted_ , all of his emotions burned out after his confrontation with Nono and the ensuing need to talk himself out of losing his mind in the middle of downtown. He just wants to steal one of her books and curl up and let the world go away for a while. The look on her face promises that none of that is going to happen.

“Kurokawa-san?” he asks, pausing just inside the gate of the house.

She looks up at him and shakes her head a little, the darkness in her face easing. “Sawada,” she replies. “How did your talk with that friend of your family go?”

Cautiously he approaches her, tucking his hands away into his pockets. “Well enough, I guess. We disagreed, but we usually do. What’s wrong?”

She shrugs. “Mom says you should probably go home tomorrow night. I think she likes you well enough, but she’s worried about why you’re here.”

Tsuna flinches minutely. “I told you why,” he says, plaintive, and she raises an eyebrow at him.

“Saying your father is home isn’t any kind of explanation,” she says repressively, and Tsuna doesn’t know what his face does at that, but it makes her soften slightly. “Is something wrong at home, Sawada?”

For a second, Tsuna doesn’t understand what she’s asking. Iemitsu is home, and that’s wrong because it never happens, his family is ten generations deep in Mafia ties, which is wrong by any objective standard, but that’s _normal_ for him, if kind of screwed up. And then, the words snap into meaning, and he can feel the flush rising in his cheeks.

“No, no!” he says hurriedly. “Nothing like that, Kurokawa-san! I mean, my mom’s kind of an airhead sometimes, and my father’s a deadbeat but we’re fine, I promise!”

Hana snorts at him, but some of the darkness is gone from her expression. “Come on, Sawada. Let’s get your stuff together. You’re hopeless in the morning, and if you need to come back here to pack, you’ll never deal with your deadbeat dad.”

Tsuna almost laughs at the way she says it, and follows her up to the guest room he’s been using for the last several days. She sits on the bed and watches him while he packs his things back into the backpack he brought, neat and efficient, exactly how Reborn taught him.

It doesn’t take him long, and once he’s packed, he sprawls across the bed next to where Hana’s sitting.

“Do I really have to go back home, though?” He asks the ceiling, and he’s aware how much it sounds like he’s whining. “Couldn’t I just go to Kyoko’s?”

Hana twists to look him in the face, and arches an eyebrow. “I’m not stupid Sawada. You don’t want to go anywhere near Kyoko’s house. You have enough trouble talking to her.”

Tsuna looks away. She’s right, of course, though he thought he’d been better at hiding it than that. But the thought of having to live in the same house as his Sun, as one of the CEDEF’s best agents, as the woman who struck him at her daughter’s funeral for killing both of her children--Tsuna bites his tongue, lets the sharp sting of pain cut off that avenue of thought.

“I’d be fine. Just back me to Sasagawa-san, and everything would be okay.” Tsuna is becoming _such_ a liar, the other tells him, with something like approval. He’d probably wake up choking down screams every night, so as not to disturb anyone.

And Tsuna thinks this would be better than living in the same house as his father for two weeks. Clearly the memories have messed up his priorities.

“Sawada,” Hana says, “I am not helping you with your ridiculous avoidant tendencies and your family drama.”

“You _could_ ,” he whines, and she fixes him with a glare.

“No,” she says, and he sighs, turning his eyes to stare at the ceiling. They stay like that, just breathing, for several long moments.

“It’s not like he’ll care,” Tsuna finally says, tired. “He’ll be gone in two weeks anyway.”

Hana shifts on the bed. “Still. You need to talk to him,” she says, and Tsuna turns to look at her. There’s a hint of give in her face, as she continues, “If you go home, I’ll back you with Kyoko’s mom until she’s willing to put you up for at least a couple of days. You don’t have to spend more than the night at your house, but you can’t avoid your dad forever, Sawada.”

Tsuna looks back up at the ceiling, trying to avoid the truth in her statement. He _knows_ that he can’t avoid Iemitsu forever, but-- _a grey gravestone, a white carnation, a black suit_ \--he’s never been close to his father, and talking to him is always a trial, because Iemitsu is nothing if not persistent. And persistently family-oriented. In both senses of the word.

“ _Sawada_ ,” Hana says warningly, and Tsuna flinches a little, drawing inwards.

“Fine,” he mutters. “I’ll go home for a night, if you’ll back me up with Sasagawa-san and I don’t have to go back.”

Hana nods, seemingly satisfied, and stands up.

“Well then. We’ve got a couple hours, so grab your physics homework. I’m going to beat the kinetic energy equation into your skull before dinner.”

Tsuna’s lips quirk. He’s still tired, still a bit emotionally flattened, and he’s definitely not looking forward to going home, but Hana’s a good friend. He could have done so much worse than her as a first touchstone for his sanity.

 

* * *

 

Tsuna dreams badly that night--flashes of a hundred funerals that are all still the same one. Carved granite, tailored suits, funeral flowers, over and over again, and always trying to find the words to explain to his mother what had happened, like he never had to in life. He wakes up still feeling tired, flattened and unwilling to rise.

Hana doesn’t care, and harries him out of bed after she’s gotten up and dressed. She walks with him all the way to school, filling the air with snippy conversation, as though the bite of her temper will keep him from noticing that she keeps throwing him worried glances. It doesn’t but it’s nice anyway, to have someone there, and it keeps Tsuna from focusing too much on what he needs to do, at least until the bell rings and she’s no longer allowed to harry him into paying attention to the present instead of the future.

Tsuna tries to pay attention when the teacher starts lecturing, but its _physics_ , which is ungodly boring, and more than that it’s _vectors_. He might not be the smartest, but he _knows_ vectors. The X-burner, the XX-burner, a half-dozen other attacks the other developed over the years. They all rely on balancing or utilizing vectors in unconventional ways. As much magic as Spanner might have worked on the contacts, Tsuna still had to manage parts of his own technique to make it work in the first place, and he had to understand how vectors worked better than pretty much anyone else to even come up with the techniques in the first place.

After physics, its world history, and Tsuna hasn’t paid any attention in that for the last week or so. They’re talking about Italy and southern Europe, which makes Tsuna laugh a little, but there’s nothing he can learn from the teacher about the country he will one day adopt as his own that he doesn’t already know.

Tsuna makes sure to keep his notebooks spread out in front of him, and a pencil in hand like he’s taking notes, but he mostly doodles--approximate shapes of the simplified Vongola crest, tiny fish, a lot of cubes. It doesn’t really matter, so long as it kills time and absorbs some of his attention, keeps his mind off the way that Takeshi’s staring at him from out of the corner of his eye and the way Hana keeps shifting in her seat to check up on him.

He’s fine, honestly. There’s just several boring hours to kill right now. Tsuna’d sleep through these classes, but he’s gotten called out for it more than once over the last few weeks, and besides, that would make him entirely too much like Kyouya.

One take on that personality is already almost more than the world needs. Tsuna’s clearly already picked up on way too many personality traits from his Guardians, if the way he’s been riling people up is any indication. He doesn’t have Takeshi’s temper, but even the sense of humor is bad enough, when it comes to the sorts of situations he’s been in lately.

 

* * *

 

Yamamoto Takeshi likes people. They’re fun to watch, and they like him back, and seeing them do things is interesting.

He’s popular, he’s noticed, because he knows all about people before they know about him, and because he can throw a baseball like nobody’s business. The funny thing is, as much as he knows things about the people around him, they don’t seem to know much about him.

Sometimes it bugs him, but his dad’s always said he’s got his mama’s temper, so instead Takeshi forces himself to be cheerful. Mama’s temper isn’t something to be proud of, after all, and it’d be bad if he let it go on people at school.

Still, it’s getting boring, all these people thinking they know him, because they watch him play. Takeshi’s been getting tired of it, and irritated.

Fortunately, people at school are being interesting. Sawada’s been doing some pretty cool things lately--the match against the school kendo captain for example. Takeshi’s seen his dad practice, sometimes, and Mochida’s pretty good. Nothing like Dad’s level, but pretty good for a middle schooler.

And Sawada put him out, like _ffssh_ , _bam_! Takeshi wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t seen it himself, but he did, and it had been _cool_. He’s never been interested in kendo, or in learning from his dad but man, that was great.

Plus, Sawada’s been less of a loser recently, it sounds like. His grades are better, according to the people who would know. And he’s suddenly made friends. That said friends appear to be Sasagawa Kyoko, Kurokawa Hana and _Hibari Kyouya_ is the interesting part.

The way Takeshi sees it, people’s friends say a lot about who they are. Which means Sawada’s a lot more interesting than he always seemed, because all three of his new friends are _very_ different people.

Leaning back in his chair, Takeshi tilts his head and lets himself examine Sawada, who’s got his pencil out and his notebook spread in front of him, but whose hand hasn’t moved for the last five minutes. Which is another thing that makes Takeshi curious, because all of the sudden Sawada’s doing better in class, but Takeshi’s been watching him, off and on, since Hibari-san hauled him into school a few weeks ago. The fact that Sawada almost never takes notes but is still getting better grades than ever is interesting, and Takeshi _loves_ interesting, especially unexplained interesting.

He’d also really like to know what Sawada’s doing, because Takeshi’s grades in History are slipping to the point that Dad’s giving him disappointed looks over the kitchen table.

 

* * *

 

Tsuna’s twitchy all morning. Takeshi’s been watching him, and it’s getting uncomfortable. Not because someone’s watching him--someone or another’s been watching him all the time for _weeks_. No, it’s uncomfortable because this is _Takeshi_ , and Tsuna feels like a target instead of a friend.

It’s a relief when the lunch bell rings and Tsuna can finally leave the classroom (and Takeshi’s sharp eyes) for somewhere quieter.

He finds himself on the roof entirely by accident, but it’s nice, even though the day is rather cold. He breathes in crisp air and forces himself to enjoy his food and the weather instead of dwelling on what’s going to happen after school.

He is, unfortunately, not very successful at that, so when Kyouya appears halfway through lunch, Tsuna is more than happy to take to his feet and let his Cloud come at him with ferocious intensity.

It’s a more intense session than usual--Kyouya doesn’t just confine them to the roof. Instead he drives Tsuna down the steps and out onto the front lawn, as though he can tell Tsuna’s distracted and is trying to force him to focus.

It’s not doing so well--Tsuna’s better than he has been, better than when they first started, but even he can tell that his movements today are slower than usual, that his reflexes are just ever so slightly _off_.

He tries to focus, to keep his eyes on the tonfas, to tell his body where to move, but it’s just getting harder, and this conversation with Iemitsu’s going to be _awful_ , isn’t it? Tsuna’s going to come home with bruises everywhere and have to tell his father that nothing’s wrong.

Iemitsu is not going to believe him, and he’s going to be _right_ about Tsuna for once.

That stings, just a little, Tsuna admits, stepping out of the way of a tonfa strike that would have destroyed his elbow. Still--

The cold voice of his intuition stirs, and a tonfa whistles towards his skull. Tsuna is shifting his weight, moving to avoid it, but he’s so _distracted_ today, and his body just doesn’t work right, can’t move fast enough.

Metal impacts the side of his head, and Tsuna reels as the blow reverberates through his skull like a struck bell, his vision flickering. Another blow catches him along the ribs, and then just above the knee, but Tsuna can’t _think_ , can’t escape, can’t see.

The next attack is going to put a seed of scarlet flame right below his ribs, he _knows it_. He needs to fight back, and Tsuna reaches out--

 _ally, not attacking, don’t strike!_ something shrieks at him.

His knees buckle, and Tsuna has just enough time to remember that he’s not truly under attack, before an arm wraps around his shoulders like a band of solid steel. His head is swimming, and Kyouya’s voice in his ear is an exasperated buzz.

Tsuna’s vaguely aware of being dragged through mostly-empty hallways, and then of being dropped unceremoniously on something soft and not particularly bed-like. He lies there for a long while, letting his eyes unfocus and his mind drift. Eventually his head stops ringing and his thoughts clear. It still takes him a moment to recognize the ceiling as belonging to the Reception Room.

Once he does recognize it, Tsuna tries to bolt upright, only to be halted by a sharp bolt of pain through his side that steals his breath for several seconds. Once the pain subsides, he resumes the task of sitting up, more gently this time, and pulls up his shirt to survey the damage.

An area the size of his hand is beginning to darken with bruising, but Tsuna breathes experimentally, and the telltale signs of a cracked rib are absent. Kyouya must have pulled the blow. Probably realized something was wrong when Tsuna took the strike to the head, and pulled the blows he already had in motion.

“Kyou-san said to tell you you’re not to return to classes,” a low voice says, and Tsuna looks away from his bruises to see a young Kusakabe Tetsuya sitting in a nearby chair.

“Did he say there was something I should be doing in the meantime?” Tsuna asks, trying for serious and falling into wry instead as a smile curls the corner of his mouth.

Tetsuya snorts, and smiles back. “No, though he did say a lot about ‘idiot herbivores’ and biting people to death, so watch your back for the next few days, maybe.”

Shrugging, Tsuna leans back on the couch. “No promises,” he says, and he’s rewarded when Tetsuya _laughs_.

“I see why Kyou-san likes you, Sawada-san,” he says, and while Tsuna’s still blinking at him, trying to process the words, Kyouya’s second stands up and leaves the room.

Looking back up at the ceiling, Tsuna can’t help but ask the room at large, “What just happened?”

 

* * *

 

Three hours later, Tsuna leaves the school, at the head of the wave of students returning home. He walks the familiar route alone, having avoided both Hana and Kyoko while leaving the school. As much as Hana is the one who was instrumental in making sure he’d go home, and as much as walking with Kyoko would lift his spirits, this feels like it’s something he has to do on his own.

All too soon though, he’s stepping through the front gate of his house. The front yard is still a mess, and he shakes his head as he approaches the front door. Crossing the yard is easy, but when he reaches the front door, Tsuna stops, staring at it.

Once he goes through the door, he can’t just storm out again. Hana’s right, it’s not warm enough to make sleeping in the park a viable option, not with the paltry gear he has, and he has nowhere else to go.

The door stays mockingly shut.

Tsuna squares his shoulders, fingers tightening around the strap of his bag. It’s _stupid_ to be this anxious about walking through a door when he remembers doing so many more dangerous things. When he’s _done_ more dangerous things, as the still-healing scrapes on his hands will attest. As talented as his father is with a pickaxe, it’s not particularly likely that he has the weapon to hand.

His knuckles are white, and Tsuna can feel his nails starting to dig crescents into his palms. Carefully, paying attention to each finger, he makes his hand uncurl. Then he looks up, forces his shoulders down, and pushes open the door.

“I’m home,” he calls out, and hopes that neither of his parents can hear how nervous he is in his voice.

“Welcome home, Tsu-kun,” his mother calls from the kitchen, and Tsuna can’t help a smile at her cheer. He toes his shoes off, tucking them away by the door, and pads to the kitchen door to see what she’s doing.

When he looks through the door, though, it’s not just his mother in the kitchen.

Iemitsu is sprawled in one of the chairs at the kitchen table, and, as far as Tsuna can tell, he’s not drunk, which is almost a miracle.

“Hi, Tsu-kun!” he says, and Tsuna bites his tongue to keep from replying with anything the other is saying. A lot of it seems to boil down to, _what are you doing here_ and _leave_. Neither of which he can say in front of his mother. She loves his father, for whatever reason, and Tsuna doesn’t want to upset her.

“Dad,” he says finally, because his silence was beginning to stretch into being horribly awkward. “It’s been a while.”

Judging by the way that Iemitsu flinches slightly at the words, he might not have been as successful at keeping the bitterness out of his voice as he would like. He’s a little bit sorry--if Iemitsu heard it, then his mother might have, and she doesn’t need to deal with her failure of a son and her mafia-man husband getting into it in front of her.

Still, the man recovers admirably, smiling so brightly at Tsuna that it almost hides the sudden shadows in his eyes.

“Why don’t we talk, Tsu-kun?” Iemitsu asks, and his voice is so falsely cheerful that Tsuna almost wants to _scream_. “Man to man!”

Tsuna does not scream, but it’s a near thing as he nods, slightly, and follows his father out of the kitchen and into the living room.

They sit down together, painfully awkward, and neither of them says anything for a long while. Iemitsu studies Tsuna, and Tsuna fixes his eyes on the wall, just over his father’s left shoulder, and leans against the hard-won confidence of the memories to keep from cracking. His father’s going to have to _pry_ a talk out of him.

 

* * *

 

Iemitsu examines his son, notices the almost-healed scrapes on Tsuna’s hands, the tightness in his shoulders and jaw, the bruises on his arms, the way he can’t even bring himself to look at his father.

It doesn’t make _sense_. Iemitsu spends so much time in Italy to _protect_ Tsuna from the things that would do this to him, and his son is acting like Iemitsu is the most dangerous thing he’s ever seen. Like an enemy. Iemitsu’s seen captured members of enemy famigilia who had less resolutely uncooperative body language than his _son_ does right now.

The silence is oppressive, but its clear Tsuna’s not going to break it, so Iemitsu sighs, stretching out his legs, trying to make the atmosphere less oppressive, and goes first.

“Your mother is worried about you.”

Tsuna doesn’t even twitch. His eyes remain fixed on the wall over Iemitsu’s shoulder, and Iemitsu fights the urge to shiver. This kind of absolute, terrible silence, is entirely out of character for Tsuna.

“You haven’t been home for the last few days,” he says, trying a different tack, and Tsuna’s face is as open as ever, and Iemitsu still somehow can’t read anything from him.

“Is something wrong?” he asks, because what else can he do? He has no more idea what’s happened to his son than Nana does.

Slowly, Tsuna blinks, and his head turns slightly, until he’s finally looking Iemitsu in the face, though still not meeting his eyes. A long moment passes, and then Tsuna breaks the silence, his voice utterly flat.

“Why are you here?” he asks, and the detached, curious tone hits Iemitsu like a punch right to the gut. It’s like Tsuna doesn’t believe his father should be around, like he doesn’t think Iemitsu cares.

“Mama was worried,” Iemitsu says, and it’s a battle to keep his tone upbeat, to keep the hurt out of his voice. “She asked me to come home and see if you needed help from your Papa!”

“I don’t need you,” Tsuna says, coldly factual, and Iemitsu can’t help but flinch, cheer shredded by the blunt words. “I get by just fine without you.”

“I know I work a lot, but I do it for you and Mama. I wish--”

There’s a crack as Tsuna’s hand hits the side table, cutting Iemitsu off from saying more, and Tsuna’s face is no longer unreadable. Instead he is nearly incandescent with fury.

“You’re not doing this for us” Tsuna says, and every word is precisely formed, like gemstones cut against his anger. “If you cared about us, we’d hear from you. You’d show up more often than a few days every few _years_.”

Tsuna’s his jaw works for a second, as though he’s biting back further words, and Iemitsu is entirely at sea here, in his own house, with his son across from him.

 

* * *

 

Tsuna bites his tongue, swallows down his fury that his father is here, and tries to master his temper. Being this angry is new to him, and it’s hard to control.

“Talk to me, Tuna-fish,” Iemitsu says, and there might be desperation under the manic cheer but Tsuna can’t quite tell. “Don’t you have anything else to say to your Papa? Is that what this is, displaced anger at your old man?”

Everything goes terribly cold all at once, and the other wants to smile with teeth bared. Does he have anything else to _say_? Is Iemitsu really asking that? He thinks that this is just a child who is angry at his father? He should _know_ this fury from his own Boss.

Tsuna wants to laugh, but he wouldn’t stop until he was crying or he threw up, and that would probably just make Iemitsu stick around for longer. Instead, Tsuna lets his tongue go from between his teeth and meets his father’s eyes for the first time since his father arrived. His hand till stings from striking the table, but that’s nothing to the terrible frozen _rage_ that has been slowly filling his chest making it hard to breathe.

“Everything I have to say to you,” he says, and his voice is even, though it wavers slightly from the effort it takes to not _scream_ at Iemitsu. Tsuna wishes it wasn’t so hard, that it didn't make him look so weak, but he continues anyway, and his cheeks are burning with fury but he has to say this. “I have already told your boss.”

Iemitsu is blinking in confusion, and Tsuna stands, moving stiffly, muscles locked so he doesn’t try to punch his father.

“After all,” Tsuna says, and there’s poison in his voice as he heads towards the steps, “He’s the only one you care to listen to.”

When he leaves the room, Tsuna does not even think to look back.

 

* * *

 

Iemitsu stares at the doorway Tsuna has disappeared around, and his son’s words echo mockingly inside his head.

_After all, he’s the only one you care to listen to._

_I didn’t need you_.

 _You’re not doing this for us_.

He’s been trying so hard, for so long, to keep his family safe.

It looks like he’s lost his son anyway, and not in the way he expected.

Leaning back, Iemitsu thinks about what Tsuna says, and he frowns a little. He’s been away for a while, certainly, but he’d thought he’d understood Tsuna, before he left. Quiet. Shy, even, and perhaps a little slow. Certainly not really aware of what his father did.

That certainly wasn’t what Tsuna just acted like. He spoke about Timoteo like he knew the man, like they truly had spoken, and as for quietness...

 _Sharp_ , Iemitsu thinks, remembering the way Tsuna’s eyes flickered over the room, checking entrances and exits and possible weapons in a single almost-casual sweep before settling just to the side of Iemitsu’s face. _Sharp, and angry and scared out of his mind_.

Which begged the question of what exactly had frightened Tsuna so much that he’d changed so drastically in such a short amount of time.

Iemitsu doesn’t even know where to start asking that question. But Nana’s confusion when she called him makes so much more sense now. It’s not just that Tsuna is different than the kid Iemitsu left behind--it’s that parts of him _aren’t_ , and it makes all of the changes stand out in even sharper relief. His voice still wavers sometimes, but he vents his rage anyway. He doesn’t meet anyone’s eyes, except he _does_ in the middle of his fury.

 

* * *

 

It’s not avoidant behavior if there’s something that needs to be done, Tsuna rationalizes to himself, as he ducks into his room and locks the door behind himself. Picking his way through the mess on the floor, is less disorienting than it was a few weeks ago, and making his way to the bed is easy, even though he hasn’t been home for days. Letting out a sharp breath, Tsuna sits down on top of his covers, pressing his back to the wall and stretching out his legs.

The conversation with the Ninth a few days ago, every scrap of memory that interrupts his life, even just the sparring sessions with Kyouya, all of them are constant, implacable reminders that he’s going to need his Flame, and soon.

Tsuna spares a moment to make sure he’s not going to stand up in an hour and hate himself, and then cups his hands together, right hand under left, forming a bowl it’s easy to imagine a flame dancing in.

This is going to be difficult, and every advantage he can wring out will make it easier to call his Flame. It’s _there_ , he knows it is, but he can’t feel it as brightly as the other remembers. This would be easier if he had a fight to drive him, but he doesn’t, and Tsuna’s not stupid enough to try his luck at leaving the house without having to fight with his father again, or at getting out of a fight he picks to call Flame in unscathed.

He will have to use another technique this time. It’s hard, but it also won’t get him _killed_ , so there are benefits to it.

Focusing on the bowl of his cupped hands, Tsuna breathes, and lets his eyes unfocus, reaching down to the core of orange fire that the memories hint at how to access. He just needs to touch the barest hint of that burning, and channel a tiny thread of it to pool in his hands.

It’s _maddening_ in its difficulty. Attempt after attempt, the core of his Flame eludes him. Sometimes he gets closer, sometimes he doesn’t, but every time the heat slips away from him.

He did this for Xanxus once, when the healing was still raw and new and Wrath hurt too much to bear when called for spite. Called his Flame into the bowl of his fingers and just let it _sing_ , until Xanxus could hear it too. It had been a quiet night, the two of them perched on the roof of the Varia’s main mansion, Flame burning like the first gleam of a summer dawn in Tsuna’s hands, while Xanxus listened and learned to _be_.

It’s a good memory, something the other always felt he did _right_ , but it makes Tsuna’s concentration slip for that single critical second, and the heat evaporates from his palms. Tsuna bites his tongue to keep from swearing, and just breathes quietly, and clenches his hands into fists. It’s not _working_ , even though it should be. He keeps getting distracted, or the Flame dances away from him, always just out of reach. It’s incredibly frustrating, and his head is pounding.

 _One more time_ , he thinks, and hopes it will finally work. He grits his teeth against the dull ache building behind his eyes and reaches, again, for that core of white-heat he knows rests inside his heart, for that wild-burning conviction that will allow him to do anything.

“As if I were about to die,” he says, and he can all but feel the barest flickers of warmth sing to him, like the wind on a clear autumn day, blowing out of the high-vaulted sky. It feels like strength he never knew he had, and he _wants_ it, not just because it’s proof he’s not crazy.

He almost has it, can almost _feel_ flame flickering to life in his hands. It hurts, pushing this hard, sends lances of splitting pain through his temples but he pushes the pain aside. Instead he focuses, and _reaches_ , trying for _just a little further_ , and it spikes white light across his vision, a blade of agony through his head. He lets go with a pained gasp, leaning his head against the wall.

Another failure. He can tell that his Flame is there, but he can’t _reach_ it, can’t even call a shadow of his Dying Will.

Sighing, he leans against his wall, drawing his knees up to his chest. It doesn’t make _sense_. He can feel his Will, can feel his Flame, and before the other Tsuna died, he could call it almost without thinking about it. When he needed it, the Flame came.

 _Needed_. Tsuna sighs again. He doesn't need it. He’s not dying, or in danger, and if any of his people are in danger, he can’t tell, can’t change it.

 _His people_.

Tsuna wonders when the people of the memories, not just Hayato and Lambo and Chrome, but Xanxus, Basil, Lal Mirch, Enma and the others, became not ‘the other’s people’ but _his_ people. He can’t pin it down, and it doesn’t sit quite right on him, like wearing clothes far too large or a burden far too heavy, but it’s _there_ , in the way that he puts himself in harm’s way, in the way words come unbidden to his lips.

 _Yeah_. _That’s what I thought_.

He doesn’t regret it. They were cruel words, but they were true and they were deserved. The other agrees, admires the shape of the words, the flavor of _pre-emptive strike, defend our people_ and Tsuna would worry about how much he’s changing, but he doesn’t have the time or the energy anymore.

Besides, he’s already made his choice hasn’t he? That future, with the Maschere whittling them away, with the Vongola and her allies dying like animals--he’s already rejected it. The only choice now is to make sure it doesn’t happen.

The other agrees again, and Tsuna rests his chin on his knees, closing his eyes. He’s already on his third chance, the memories say. He’s died twice before playing this game, even if neither death managed to stick properly. This one pays for all.

He breathes, ignores the sound of his father’s cheerful babble from downstairs, ignores the sound of his mother’s laughter, and lets the ghost of a memory of a dead man tell him how to carry a legacy that has broken better, stronger people.

 _First,_ says that tired, whispery voice from deep down inside, _you must learn to survive._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, kudos and comments are a thing of beauty and joy! You can come bug me on tumblr at [boycottromance](boycottromance.tumblr.com). I'll try to get the next chapter out soon, but no promises, because RL is kind of hell right now.


	7. this is where we start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You realize she’s going to think the same thing my mother did, right?” she asks, after a moment. She sounds almost concerned, and it makes Tsuna want to laugh a little, because how is this his _life_ , that the Spider is worried about him?
> 
> Instead he just shrugs, tucking his hands into his pockets. “I can handle that,” he says, pretending the thought doesn’t make his knees want to knock like chimes in a stiff wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long break between chapters! I unfortunately got out of the habit of writing, and then there was school and so on...
> 
> Still, as an apology for the wait, have about 12k of Birthright, as we move into the Level Up arc.

Tsuna drags himself out of bed with a sigh, and forces his spine to pop, relieving some of the tension of a night spent mostly sleepless, curled up and talking to himself.

The memories are easier on him though, he thinks. They feel less like something forced on him, more like something he can carry without his shoulders giving out from the strain. The long immersion in memory and loss has left things more settled, the precarious balance of past-future and present easier to find.

Which still doesn’t make it a simple matter.

Getting dressed, Tsuna checks the time. It’s still early yet, and with luck, Iemitsu is either still sleeping off his alcohol, or too hungover to bother getting out of bed. If Tsuna would rather not be out of bed either, it’s a sacrifice he has to make if he wants to avoid his father as much as possible, after the scene he made last night.

His uniform on, Tsuna approaches his door, braces himself, and flips the lock. He pauses for a moment, takes a breath, and then eases it open.

There’s no sound from the hallway, so he creeps downstairs and into the kitchen for breakfast. He dithers for a second over the coffee maker, pulled out from where it usually lives at the back of one of the kitchen cabinets. Finally he rolls his eyes at himself and makes himself half a pot of coffee, setting it to brew while he looks around the kitchen for things to eat for breakfast.

Toast and some reheated leftovers from the refrigerator are the perfect answers to his quest, and by the time he’s done putting it together, the coffee has finished brewing.

Pouring himself a cup, he breathes in the steam. Part of him practically purrs at the scent, while the rest is skeptical. He kind of hopes this kind of being of two minds about almost everything fades soon, because it’s more than slightly disconcerting.

Sighing to himself, he puts the mug down on the kitchen table, letting the coffee cool as he starts in on his breakfast, keeping an eye on the time.

By the time he’s finished his food, and made serious inroads on his second cup of coffee, there’s the sound of people stirring upstairs. Fortunately for him, it’s also almost time for him to get out of the house if he’s going to meet up with Hana before school.

They could, of course, just talk in homeroom, but it’s also private business, and Tsuna would rather not have the fact he’s unwilling to go home be all over the school rumor mill. Enough of his personal business is there already.

Knocking back the rest of his coffee, Tsuna does his best to clean up, washing the dishes quickly and setting them aside to dry, before picking up his backpack and heading out the door.

Hana meets him before he’s made it quite halfway to school, scowling even more than usual.

Her expression eases as they fall into step, and she even manages to smile slightly at him. Or at least unbend her scowl into something slightly like a smile.

“Sasagawa-san doesn’t mind putting you up for a while,” she says, without preamble. “Honestly, I don’t think she really cares how long it is.”

Tsuna sighs in relief. “Thank you for talking to her.”

Hana makes a noise of disgusted agreement, and there’s silence for a moment.

“You realize she’s going to think the same thing my mother did, right?” she asks, after a moment. She sounds almost _concerned_ , and it makes Tsuna want to laugh a little, because how is this his _life_ , that the Spider is worried about him?

Instead he just shrugs, tucking his hands into his pockets. “I can handle that,” he says, pretending the thought doesn’t make his knees want to knock like chimes in a stiff wind.

Hana gives him a sharp look up and down, before she nods decisively and seems to accept that.

They walk the rest of the way to school in comfortable silence.

* * *

 

Kyouya doesn’t come attack him as soon as he enters school grounds, which is unusual, but Tsuna finds himself deeply grateful for it. Thinking about staying with the Sasagawas has him so keyed up that if anyone takes a swing at him this morning, he might start crying just from the stress.

In retrospect, possibly the coffee was a bad idea, but what’s done is done.

Classes pass by in a daze, but Tsuna does his best to take notes, and he manages better than he’s been doing for the last few days. At least today all of his notes are in Japanese, and they seem relatively coherent when he checks them over during break.

His notes from yesterday switch at random between Japanese and Italian, and the notes from the day before not only fell suddenly into Italian, but rapidly devolved into what Tsuna thinks was commentary on the teacher, but mostly reads like pure nonsense. There are also, unfortunately, more than a few pages in Hayato’s personal cipher, which is ridiculous. The cipher-characters are more labor-intensive than regular script, and yet from what Tsuna can tell, those are some of the most complete notes he’s taken recently.

His life, Tsuna notes down in the margins of his notebook, is a mess.

Fortunately, nothing goes terribly wrong over the course of the day. Kyouya even leaves him alone, possibly as something vaguely resembling an apology for the head injury. Or maybe he’s just too busy beating up the rulebreakers today.

Whatever the reason is, Tsuna’s grateful for it. He still might start crying if someone attacks him, which just proves that the coffee was a bad idea and also, incidentally and unsurprisingly, that he’s a wimp.

He also feels the urge to start panicking as the clock ticks ever closer to the dismissal bell, but that’s something he’s brought on himself, so he’s just going to have to face it like, well. Not like a man, because he can all but hear his father saying those words in his head and it makes his lip curl in disgust, but like an adult, at least.

Not that Tsuna is anything like an adult—witness all of his bad decisions in the last several weeks, from skipping school to climb vertical rock faces hundreds of feet tall to confronting his father, to taunting Namimori Middle’s bullies. An adult would know better.

Tsuna, admittedly, does not have any particularly good adult role models in his live. Mafia bosses, hitmen, absentee fathers and assassins are not exactly pinnacles of moral or social rectitude.

He underlines the note in the margin of his notebook. His life is _such_ a mess.

Looking up at the clock, Tsuna sighs, and does his best to tune back into the lecture. Just because he’s probably going to become a mafia boss is no excuse to slack on his education, as Reborn so often told him during high school.

(He tries to stop watching the seconds tick past, and doesn’t quite manage to succeed.)

* * *

Hana grabs him by the arm as soon as he exits the classroom, and when he looks at her, a little confused, she bares her teeth at him.

“You don’t get to run off without me, this time,” she says. Tsuna shouldn’t feel so touched by this, really, but. Well, he’s never really had friends before. The memories don’t count, because they’re not _his_ , and Tsuna thinks he’s willing to forgive a lot, including Hana snarling at him, because she’s one of his first real friends.

“And don’t get sappy,” she snaps, as though she can hear the direction his thoughts are taking. “I just don’t want you to get yourself killed because you’re a coward, before I figure out what’s up with you.”

Tsuna ducks his head, trying to hide his smile, but from her irritated sniff, he thinks he doesn’t quite succeed. It’s okay. She just tightens her fingers for a second, and then hauls him through the hallway without another word.

Kyoko’s waiting outside, watching the crowd of students carefully, and she lights up when she sees them.

“You found him, Hana-chan!” she says, and Tsuna gets the feeling that if he’d somehow escaped Hana when he left the classroom, Kyoko would have done something drastic to make sure he couldn’t leave school grounds without them.

Kyoko’s a beautiful human being, but, as Tsuna’s memories tell him, she’s also vicious, practical, and shares her brother’s tendencies towards overkill.

“He didn’t even try sneaking,” Hana agrees, and Tsuna gets the feeling she’s disappointed, which just proves he did the right thing. Hana’s sense of appropriate measures is probably terrifying.

The other winces, and there’s a feeling of _didn’t know you could_ do _that with a—!_ which just proves Tsuna is being sensible.

He’s quickly sandwiched between the two girls, with Kyoko hooking an arm around his, and Hana hasn’t released her grip on his upper arm. He hopes she eases off soon though, because he has enough bruises from Kyouya without adding some from her.

Kyoko quickly begins chattering up a storm about her brother’s boxing club, which Tsuna listens to with more interest than he expected of himself. She talks without really expecting any response, and Tsuna finds himself smiling a little bit.

Almost before he realizes how far they’ve come, Kyoko is pushing open the gate to her house. Suddenly, the easy willingness to go along with her vanishes, and Tsuna stops dead, just a few feet inside the gate.

Kyoko looks up at him, curious. Tsuna doesn’t know what his face looks like, but from her expression, it’s probably bad.

“It’s okay,” she says. “I’ll go inside and tell Mama you’re here. You can come in when you’re ready.”

She doesn’t smile, but something inside his chest curls up tighter against the warm understanding in her expression.

“Hana-chan, make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid,” Kyoko continues, unhooking her arm from his, and skipping into her house.

There’s a snort from Hana in response, but her fingers tighten on Tsuna’s upper arm for a second before relaxing, if not letting go. Instead, she just holds his arm for another several seconds, letting him gather his nerves.

Eventually, of course, she gets impatient.

“Are you actually going inside?” she asks, and it’s said idly, but Tsuna knows she’ll haul him in at the slightest indication he looks like he’s about to run. Still, he hesitates for a moment, eyeing the door and feeling as though it will swallow him.

“Of course, you could always go back home,” Hana says, in her snidely encouraging way.

“That,” Tsuna says distantly, “would be a terrible idea. Thank you for reminding me.”

She smirks at him, and he walks through the door, pretending it doesn’t terrify him.

Inside, the house is pretty, with a comfortably shabby, lived-in look. Kyoko is standing beside a woman who must be her mother. It’s easy to see where Kyoko gets her coloring, her amber-gold hair and eyes are the image of her mother’s. But while Kyoko will grow to be sturdy and stocky, with muscles honed from both playful boxing with her brother and life-or-death matches against the Vongola’s enemies, Sasagawa Aiko is rounded and matronly. She smiles like sunshine, and Tsuna finds himself caught between wariness and the urge to smile back at her.

“Tsuna-kun,” Kyoko says, “this is my mother.”

“Sasagawa-san,” Tsuna says, bowing. “Thank you for accepting me into your home on such short notice.”

Sasagawa-san smiles, and Tsuna thinks that she is a beautiful woman now, without the deaths of her children aging her beyond her time. “It’s no problem, Sawada-kun,” she says, gesturing for him to come into the house. “But Hana wasn’t very clear about why you didn’t want to stay at home. Is everything all right there?”

Tsuna tries not to sigh too visibly. Why is it that everyone feels the need to ask that question? Hana warned him, but still, this is almost annoying.

“My father is home,” he explains. “He and I...we don’t exactly get along. I didn’t want to put my mother in the middle of that, so I’m keeping out of the way until he leaves. It shouldn’t be more than a few more days.”

The statement’s even mostly true, as far as that goes, and Tsuna pastes on a smile to hide any other expression.

Sasagawa-san’s smile loses some of its brightness, and her eyes start to look a little sad.

“You’re welcome to stay as long as you need, Sawada-kun,” she says, determinedly cheerful anyway. “Kyoko can show you the room she and Hana-kun set up for you!”

Kyoko, who has been watching this whole exchange with a polite smile, jumps in, perfectly on cue, and grabs Tsuna’s arm to drag him upstairs.

Tsuna is halfway through readying himself to break her grip and to bring his other hand up to smash her nose when exactly where he is and who is holding onto him properly penetrates. When it does, the sheer horror of what he nearly did nearly collapses his knees.

He almost hurt _Kyoko_ , who has been a light in his life for as long as he can remember, who is one of his only friends, who might one day be one of his CEDEF’s most trusted agents.

Guilt squirms into his stomach, settling side by side with the grief that has been making a nest inside of him since he saw the Sasagawa house. They sit side by side, wriggling like worms or maggots, red little biting things writhing up into his ribcage and _eating him_ —

He cuts that train of thought off ruthlessly, desperately. He can’t lose himself, like that, not here, where Kyouya can’t tell him true things, where he might forget what and where he is, and call Ryohei ‘nii-san’, where Kyoko lives and laughs and smiles. Where he might stop stopping himself, and truly _hurt_ someone.

He can’t taint Sasagawa-san’s house with the blood and smoke of his memories. He’s already hurt her too much already, in the future that will not be. He can’t start back into old habits now.

Tsuna breathes in deep, feels the ache through his ribs from Kyouya’s strike yesterday, and lets the pain ground him in the present as Kyoko hauls him through her house to a small room that clearly held junk until just recently. But if there are still a few boxes tucked into one of the corners, there’s also a futon and blankets, a lamp with a cheery yellow shade that looks like it had an unfortunate run in with some red and orange paint, and a window with pale pink drapes.

“Do you like it?” Kyoko asks from the door, as Tsuna steps in to peer out the window.

She’s bouncing on her toes, excited and nervous all at once, and Tsuna can’t help smiling a little at her.

“It’s perfect,” he says. “Thank you.”

She grins. “Hana-chan helped out, and so did my brother! Hana-chan is the one who made sure there was a futon, and Ryohei helped move all of the boxes.”

Tsuna’s fist clenches at the reminder of Ryohei, who he’s going to be _living with_ for the next _week_. What was he _thinking_? It’s bad enough with Kyouya at school, coming at him just like the other-Kyouya would and blurring the line between present and maybe-future. Now Tsuna’s going to have Ryohei close enough to _touch_ and still a complete stranger.

He can already tell that the memories are going to hurt. Still, he forces his voice to remain calm as he says, “I’ll make sure to thank them too.”

Kyoko beams. “I’ll let you get settled, Tsuna-kun. Mom will call when it’s dinnertime, and after we can work on homework together! Hana-chan says you’re really good with the history we’re doing in class right now.”

Tsuna nods. “That sounds good. Could you help me with my math homework?” he smiles, a little sheepish. “Hana called me hopeless yesterday, so she probably won’t be willing to help me fix it up during homeroom tomorrow.”

She giggles and nods, before leaving him alone in the room. Putting down his bag, Tsuna sits down on the futon and sighs.

He can already tell this is going to be a hard few days, until Iemitsu gets the point and leaves Namimori. Seeing Ryohei every day and trying to remember that _this_ Ryohei isn’t _that_ Ryohei, his older brother, the lone optimist in his life, unexpectedly ferocious and strangely wise. Talking to Sasagawa-san and trying to hide the guilt he can’t keep from feeling.

He sighs again, and rubs his hands over his face before opening up his backpack and digging out his English notes and textbook. If he’s got nothing better to do with his mind than go over his circumstances, he should probably do homework instead. The situation will be just as awkward and undesirable later, once he’s done.

* * *

Dinner, when Sasagawa-san calls them all in for it, is a noisy affair. Mostly because of Ryohei’s exuberance, but Sasagawa-san laughs even louder than her son, and Kyoko contributes her share of the chatter. Tsuna keeps himself quiet, and occupies himself with the food. It’s good—not quite as good as his mother’s, but some part of him still thinks of any sort of home-cooked food as a luxury, and savors it accordingly.

Afterwards, Tsuna avoids any awkward conversations by diving into homework with Kyoko, and then immediately goes to bed.

That’s when he finds out the thing that makes staying with the Sasagawas even more uncomfortable than he expected.

He can’t sleep.

Thinking about it, staring into the bare darkness of the room he’s in as he lies awake, Tsuna’s not surprised. The first time he saw Takeshi, after the memories came back, he flashed back, viciously, and seeing Kyouya brought about a full-scale panic attack. It’s no surprise that being around the Sasagawas gives him nightmares.

Still, he can barely snatch an hour’s worth of restless sleep at a time, and constantly wakes, gasping, from nightmares and memories and horrific, seamless meldings of the two.

He takes up insomnia, which the memories tell him is no new habit, and sleeping in class, which he’s been doing for ages, when he doesn’t understand the material. The short catnaps in between standing for new teachers are never long enough to dream in, but they stave off the bare edge of exhaustion, leaving simple tiredness behind.

He’s functioning, if not at his best, at least acceptably. Or so he thinks until three days in, when Kyouya stops midway through a lunchtime spar to glare.

“You’re slow,” he says, irritated, and Tsuna blinks. He doesn’t _feel_ slow, just heavy, but Kyouya would probably know better.

“Sorry?” he asks, not sure exactly what Kyouya wants.

The prefect snorts, disdainful, and darts in, swinging one tonfa, and the next thing Tsuna knows, he’s falling to the cement, feet knocked out from under him.

...Perhaps there’s some merit to Kyouya saying he’s slower than usual.

Leaning back onto his elbows, Tsuna takes a second just to stare at the sky. He really wants to just take a nap, no matter that the roof is cold, hard, and should be uncomfortable. Rubbing a hand over his face, he readies himself to sit up again.

There’s a huff of irritation, and suddenly Kyouya has flopped down by Tsuna’s side.

“Uh?” Tsuna says, eloquently. “What are you doing?”

Kyouya just makes an irritated noise, and, instead of explaining, says, “If you wake me up, I’ll bite you to death.”

Then he proceeds to use Tsuna’s stomach as a pillow, and, to all appearances, fall asleep instantly.

Tsuna is left blinking for a long moment, before he snorts in amusement, a smile tugging at his lips. Lying down, it’s easy to throw an arm over his eyes and let himself fall asleep.

Kyouya is here. He’s safe.

* * *

Of course, because Tsuna’s life can never remain peaceful, he’s accosted by Ryohei three hours later, at the end of school. The captain of the boxing club is grinning broadly, and Tsuna can’t rationalize away the intense foreboding that fills him at the sight. He’s been avoiding Ryohei as much as possible, these last few days, but he should have known it wouldn’t last, that staying in the house would make Ryohei curious.

Too late.

“Hey, you’re the guy Hibari likes to hang out with! And you’re Kyoko’s friend right?” Ryohei asks, his grin never wavering. Tsuna is too dumbstruck to do anything more than nod his assent.

Throwing his arm around Tsuna’s shoulders, Ryohei says, superhumanly excited, “You have to join the boxing club!” With Tsuna still too stunned to properly react, Ryohei takes control, and starts steering him down the halls at breakneck speed. Too many things happen at once for Tsuna to try to respond, even with all of the memories he has of Ryohei’s impressive energy. By the time he has his voice back, they’re halfway across school grounds, headed for the sports clubhouses.

“I don’t want to?” he says, and he’s aware it sounds more like a question than a real response, but he’s still blindsided by Ryohei, who seems to be infinitely more energetic in person than he is in memory.

Without Tsuna clearly being aware of how it happened, he’s being pulled past the boxing club’s ring. He wonders, in the corner of his mind that’s managing to process things with some degree of sanity, if this is what it’s like for people who experience his Dying Will. If so, he suddenly has so much more sympathy for most of his Guardians, who had to deal with it for months before he got things under control.

“I’ll have to extremely convince you to join then!” Ryohei declares as he pushes Tsuna into the locker room, and Tsuna resists the urge to bury his face in his hands. Of all the things he doesn’t need, an extracurricular activity is near the top of the list. He'll have better luck convincing a rock of that than Ryohei, though.

He changes and pulls on the boxing gloves left for him anyway, because he’s currently living with Ryohei, so he should try to keep him happy. Besides, if playing keep-away with Kyouya helps him not worry too much about what’s coming, maybe sparring with Ryohei will help him keep from thinking too hard about why he’s currently living with the Sasagawas.

Wearing a face mask and boxing gloves is _weird_ , once he’s got them on. He’s never worn them before, but the other memories, which feel increasingly right and familiar to him, say that this is too much. The other sparred with gloves of pale leather and scarlet metal and blue crystal and no padding at all.

He sighs and tries to focus on the present as he steps out of the locker room, not the way his hand feels too light inside the glove. It helps that he’s immediately accosted by the enthusiastic (and perhaps slightly cowed) members of the boxing club, and hauled into the ring.

Ryohei is grinning in that infectious way of his, and Tsuna can’t help smiling back.

“Extremely show me what you’ve got, Sawada!” Ryohei shouts, and Tsuna nods. One of the boxing club members rings a bell, and the match begins.

Tsuna ducks the first punch, ignores the impulse to kick out, because this is a boxing match and he’s _trying_ not to break the rules. Instead, he slips in close, aiming a punch of his own at Ryohei’s solar plexus.

It’s blocked, not unexpectedly, and Tsuna shifts his feet, moves again, gets ready for a different strike. This is easy, almost _joyous_ , not like the fear-edged exhilaration of dodging around Kyouya, or the fury of the time he waded into a knot of high schoolers just because. This is soothing to the other, something he’s done a thousand times before.

Ryohei throws another punch, and Tsuna blocks this time, responding with a flurry of his own strikes. Ryohei grins, and steps up his own attacks. Before long, Tsuna’s entirely consumed by the back-and-forth rhythms of sparring: concerns, comparisons and worries washed away by instinct, the burn of his muscles, the concentration required of him.

There’s no space for thinking in the ring, and it’s _incredible_.

He doesn’t know how long they box for, but eventually Tsuna’s attention slips, and Ryohei lays him out with a beautiful, textbook cross that hits Tsuna right on the chin.

For a second, Tsuna doesn’t bother to move. Instead he lies on the mat, savoring the faint, dizzy unreality of the world around him, and the timelessness of Ryohei knocking him flat.

It’s also kind of nice to be lying down, Tsuna admits to himself. Sometimes, lately, he thinks he’s nothing but a giant bruise, courtesy of one Hibari Kyouya. The idea of running into his Cloud again almost makes him want to never get up, but Tsuna knows his duties.

With a groan of protest, Tsuna forces himself upright, only to be confronted by Ryohei’s grinning face, just a little too close for comfort.  

“You extremely have to join the boxing club!” Ryohei says seriously, before hauling Tsuna to his feet.

Tsuna huffs a laugh as he gets his feet back under him. Ryohei never changes.

“I don’t think Hibari-san would like it if I did that,” he says, a little wry, as he brushes off his pants. He’s not even going to get into how he can’t join clubs because he’s probably going to be a mafia boss with Ryohei. At this point, it would just fly right over his erstwhile elder brother’s head.

“I’ll extremely convince him, then,” Ryohei says, and he’s determined now. Tsuna can’t help the amused smile.

“If anyone can,” he says, “it would be you, brother.”

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Tsuna wishes he’d never said them. It’s a stupid mistake, letting the memories speak for him. It’s just that the place and situation—a gym, Ryohei teasing him after knocking him flat—they’re too similar, and he’s dizzy with lack of sleep and punch-drunk to boot.

Taking off the faceguard, he rakes a hand through his hair. “Sorry,” he mutters to the mat. “Don’t know why I said that.”

He doesn’t look up when Ryohei puts a hand on his shoulder. He’s living with Ryohei right now, but that’s no reason to force his way into the Sasagawa family. It’s not like it worked out last time.

“It’s okay, “Ryohei says. “You’re staying over right now. You’re going to be my extreme little brother,” Tsuna knows that tone of voice. Easier to reverse gravity than to change Ryohei’s mind now.

He still feels a little guilty for the curl of relieved pleasure in the pit of his stomach, hearing Ryohei call him ‘little brother’ again. He but he forces it away, makes himself look up to smile at Ryohei.

It’s not quite like having a Guardian, but having a big brother again means more.

* * *

Its two more days of restless nights and skipping class to sleep on the roof before Tsuna walks by his house on the way to school, and can see that his father’s no longer home.

It’s longer than he can ever remember his father being home in his entire life. Tsuna wishes he could have seen how happy it must have made his mother.

He wishes he hadn’t tainted it by fighting with his father.

Still, his mother seems happy enough, and he supposes that will have to satisfy him. Once he no longer lives at home, he supposes, he can drag his father home by his hair, and leave the man in Namimori.

Without the urgency of avoiding Iemitsu, or the awkward tension of living in other people’s houses, the days take on a strange sense of anticipation, as though he’s waiting for something.

(Tsuna doesn’t try to deceive himself. He knows who he’s waiting for.)

Still, he goes to school and does his homework and eats lunch with his two friends. On his first day back, he thanks Kyoko for letting him live with her, and asks her to convey his thanks to her mother as well. She frowns at him, looking a little confused, and Tsuna does his best to smile confidently back, before he returns to talking about English with Hana.

It’s awkward, not having some world-altering event happening to him, and Tsuna suddenly has a lot more sympathy for the other-him, and how weird high school was. Just the occasional overconfident yakuza, after dealing with the Vindice and Byakuran and Xanxus and the Shimon—the disparity in threat levels was difficult to manage. Tsuna remembers it, but now, with the strangeness of his life just beginning to sink in, he also _understands_ , at least a little.

There’s nothing to _do_.

Eventually, for lack of anything better to do, Tsuna ends up cleaning his room. He’s tripped over and stepped on too many things since the memories arrived, and his room being such a mess is actually uncomfortable, with the eight years of habitual neatness leaning on him.

He keeps his room clean, and does his homework as best he can, and sleeps through class because his dreams are restless and his teachers are always telling him things he already knows. The boredom and sleep deprivation make him twitchy, and after the second time he almost throws something at a startling noise, he decides that it’s also infinitely safer for everyone if he just takes naps.

Tsuna’s also just plain gotten into the habit, which makes him sigh a little. Clearly, he’s spending far too much time with Kyouya.

The school does sometimes attempt to curb his “blatant disrespect”, as they put it, by calling his mother, but Nana Sawada just sighs at Tsuna and tells him to do his best, and to be happy.

Tsuna doesn’t bother to change what he does. Right now, there’s no point, and he really is happy. Or at least closer than ever before. He’s aware of exactly how pathetic that is.

* * *

Of course, no sooner has he resolved not to do anything than something comes to change it for him.

Or rather, _someone_ does.

“Tsunayoshi,” his mother calls from the stairs, and Tsuna winces at her trotting out of his full name. “I got a call from the school. You were sleeping through classes again. What do you plan to do in the future, if this is what you’re doing in school?”

Tsuna shrugs, turning a page in his book. “I don’t know,” he calls back, the words a little mangled around the pen sticking out of his mouth.

 _Liar_ , the other laughs, sounding just like him. Tsuna scowls, and ignores it. There’s no proof he’s going to become Vongola the Tenth _anyway_. Just because Timoteo came around doesn’t mean that Enrico or Federico or Massimo have been killed. Tsuna might not be the heir.

“I’m not saying you have to go to a good high school or college, you know,” she says, opening the door. Tsuna bites down the _Don’t barge into my room_ that wants to fly out of his mouth, instead sitting up and bookmarking his page before giving his mother a flat look.

He _knows_ he’s not going to go to a good high school or college. If he’s _lucky_ , he’ll have a job for life right out of high school. If he’s _unlucky_ , he probably won’t have to worry about high school at all, because he’ll be _dead_.

“You can live your entire life bored, like you are now, or live it happily,” she says, unbothered by his expression and oblivious to his thoughts. “I want you to live feeling like it’s great to be alive!”

Tsuna almost rolls his eyes, slumping over at the repeat of a speech he’s gotten more than once. His gaze wanders back to the book he’s reading—a primer on Italian, which isn’t really all that helpful, when the memories are far more fluent than the author ever was. It’s funny, at least, to mark out the mistakes. And it’s kind of nice to not _be_ the one making mistakes for once.

“Tsu-kun…” his mother says slyly. “A home tutor is coming today.”

Tsuna freezes. “A...home tutor?” he asks, putting down his pen and standing up carefully. Surely it’s not time for this yet? He’s not nearly ready for it.

“There was an interesting flyer in the mailbox,” his mother says, cheerfully oblivious, pulling it out of a pocket. “‘Will raise your kid to be the leader of the next generation. Grade and subject doesn’t matter. Reborn,’” she reads. “Isn’t it great? I’ve never seen a promotion like this before.”

“It’s probably a scam,” he says, but he can’t help smiling slightly. Reborn has such an interesting way of being subtle sometimes. Then again, subtle has never really worked on Sawada Nana. Just sort of bounced off, usually without leaving a single scuff mark.

“It’s probably a tutor from a business school for young men,” his mother says, dropping the flyer to clasp her hands under her chin. “I’ve wanted a teacher like this for you.”

“You shouldn’t create your own image of him,” Tsuna says, more than a little wry. “You never know who might turn—”

“Ciaossu,” a squeaky voice says, cutting him off, and Tsuna was _expecting this to happen_ , was _waiting for it_ , why does finally hearing that familiar voice feel like a blade of ice through the heart?

( _—Chaos, Dame-Tsuna. You’re looking better.)_

He turns slowly, and there he is. Reborn, still cursed to the form of a baby, still with the same stupid hat, Leon perched on the brim. The image is a perfect match to memory, and Tsuna shivers, slightly. He’s not ready for this, for possibly lying to the one person who knew him inside and out.

The other is nothing but a single, incessant keen of anguish, and Tsuna forces himself to breathe through it. He understands the pain, he almost wants to scream too, but he _can’t_ , no matter what awful images the other keeps dragging out into his mind’s eye. Not here, not now, not with Reborn just a few feet away.

It feels like there should be recognition anyway, like Reborn should see something’s terribly wrong instantly, should already know Tsuna inside and out, but there’s no understanding in black eyes, and Tsuna is surprised to find himself grieving something he’s never had, and never had to lose.

( _—blood everywhere, gun smoke and ozone tang filling the air._

_They’re too late. Reborn was the greatest hitman in the world, but against an enemy willing to spend lives like water, even he eventually got unlucky._

_Tsuna bites his tongue against any one of a dozen commands, because unleashing his flame to sear this battleground out of existence is an act unfitting of a Boss, and Reborn would kill him for it. Instead he nods once, respectfully, to the man who had made him into the boss he was._

_“Strip the bodies, take anything useful, rings and boxes especially,” he calls, not even needing to raise his voice in the grave-silence of the warehouse. His people know what to do, but it reassures him to remind them, and it reassures them to hear his voice never shake. Stepping close to Reborn’s corpse, he raises his Will, which burns so high and free these days, and ignites his Flame._

_Even in these dire straits, he’s not willing to—_ )

Tsuna takes a ragged breath, ignoring the phantom scent of blood and death coating his tongue. The rest of the memory is clear in his mind’s eye, but Tsuna refuses to let it draw him in. _Namimori_ , he reminds himself, _not Italy_.

“I’ve arrived three hours early,” Reborn says, in that voice Tsuna remembers but doesn't. “As a service, I’ll evaluate you now.”

His mom blinks and leans over to stare at Reborn. Tsuna knows about what she’s going to say long before she says it, and it takes a serious effort of will to keep his wince purely internal.

“Hey, whose kid are you?” she asks, curious.

Reborn blinks, and looks up at her. “Hm?” he asks. “I’m Reborn, the home tutor.”

“ _Sure_ you are,” Tsuna says, or maybe it’s the other, speaking with his mouth.

“So you’re Tsuna,” Reborn says, sounding distinctly unimpressed, and then he _moves_.

Tsuna’s expecting the kick, but even with all of the practice Kyouya gives him at dodging, Reborn’s foot still connects solidly with Tsuna’s solar plexus. Instinct and training take over, and Tsuna folds with the blow, moving into a controlled fall and rolling to his feet as soon as possible. His weight settles onto the balls of his feet, and Tsuna looks around, ready to move at need. He keeps his hands loose and ready at his sides, the better to maneuver into blocking a second strike, or to strike himself, if the opportunity appears.

After a split second, sense reasserts itself. Tsuna blinks, and resettles his weight more evenly as he meets Reborn’s eyes.

Right, idiot-student kick, not one of Kyouya’s bizarre attacks of friendship, not an enemy striking in what should be a safe place. Likelihood of further attacks low, returning the strike a _fantastically_ stupid idea. Let the tension go.

Unfortunately, there’s absolutely no chance that Reborn missed his reaction, which means he’s going to be suspicious.

This is just going to _suck_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the love to my betas [babybirdblues](babybirdblues.tumblr.com), [ahoderahayato](ahoderahayato.tumblr.com) and [eeddis](eeddis.tumblr.com), without whom this monstrosity would not be nearly so good.
> 
> As always, the title is from a Vienna Teng song, in this case "Level Up".
> 
> Comments and kudos sustain me through the writing process, and you can find me on tumblr at [boycottromance](boycottromance.tumblr.com) where i am especially vulnerable to people telling me I should get back to work.


	8. this is the day, no other

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You proved you’re a bit more than that recently, Tsunayoshi.”
> 
> The boy shivers a little. “I don’t want to be.”
> 
> Reborn smiles, because _this_ , he’s used to.
> 
> “Too bad,” he says. “I’m going to make you the best Boss that the Vongola has ever had.”
> 
> The boy winces, as though he can see the pain that his future holds already. Reborn is just _that good_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahaha this was supposed to be out like....two weeks ago. Oops.
> 
> anyway, here it is. Hopefully it stands up. Beta'd, as usual, by my amazing team of [babybirdblues](http://www.babybirdblues.tumblr.com), [ahoderahayato](http://www.ahoderahayato.tumblr.com) and [eeddis](http://www.eeddis.tumblr.com) who all put up with a ton of my whining.

Reborn makes idle small talk with his student’s mother for several more minutes, but he keeps his eyes on Tsunayoshi.  As he examines his newest student, Reborn can’t say that he’s particularly impressed by what he sees. The boy is short, weak looking, and his grades, from what a quick skim of his records could reveal, are terrible.

And yet, appearances can be deceiving. After all, Tsunayoshi’s instinctive reaction to being kicked was to move with the attack, to recover and swiftly take a position that allowed for him to respond rapidly. That was certainly not what Reborn expected of him. Even more unusual, Tsunayoshi released the hand-to-hand stance he took up almost instantly upon seeing who his opponent was.

Reborn wonders exactly who taught Tsunayoshi, whose stance was practiced, polished even, with few errors. No one, no matter how naturally talented they are at hand-to-hand, takes such a stance without training.

Eventually Nana leaves them to ‘get acquainted’ as she puts it, while she deals with the laundry and the state of the kitchen.

Once it’s just the two of them, Tsunayoshi scoops up a book from his floor—an intermediate Italian textbook, Reborn notices—and seats himself on the bed, opening the book to the pen he used as a bookmark and continuing reading.

“What brings you to Namimori?” he asks after a moment, a little absent. “I mean, someone like you. Tutoring. Doesn’t really seem like an intuitive career move.”

Reborn blinks, a little nonplussed, and then hops up onto the bed, knocking the book out of Tsunayoshi’s hands.

“I’m not here as a tutor,” he says, matter-of-fact, once he has Tsunayoshi’s attention. “My real job is to make you into a mafia boss.”

Tsunayoshi sighs a little, but doesn’t seem to be in the least phased, which is unsurprising in the light of his recent fight with Timoteo.

Still, the way he just looks at Reborn, for one long moment, like he sees far more than Reborn has ever revealed to anyone, unnerves the hitman. _No one_ should know Reborn that well. Tsunayoshi especially should have no reason to half-frown, one corner of his mouth ticking down with what looks like old grief.

But Tsunayoshi does just that, before shaking his head and huffing out a breath that’s almost a laugh. He leans over, picking up the textbook and setting it beside himself, before turning to give the hitman his full attention.

“Are the Vongola really that desperate?” Tsunayoshi asks, and there’s a note of self-mockery in his voice. “For all my blood, I’m just a no-good civilian.”

There’s something going on, some deeper level to Tsunayoshi’s words, but Reborn can’t quite figure out what it is. He tilts his head, brain working furiously to find the right response, before he shrugs.

“You proved you’re a bit more than that recently, Tsunayoshi.”

The boy shivers a little. “I don’t want to be.”

Reborn smiles, because _this_ , he’s used to.

“Too bad,” he says. “I’m going to make you the best Boss that the Vongola has ever had.”

The boy winces, as though he can see the pain that his future holds already. Reborn is just _that good_.

* * *

Walking to school with Reborn beside him is simultaneously nostalgic and utterly weird. He _knows_ Reborn, but he doesn’t know him. His life doesn’t already have a groove worn into it where the hitman fits, like the other did.

“So this becoming a mafia boss thing,” Tsuna says, for lack of anything better to say. “Why me?”

Well, he knows the answer, actually, but hearing what Reborn is willing to tell him could be informative.

“The other heirs became unsuitable,” is all Reborn says, and Tsuna rolls his eyes with a sigh.

“So they died.”

Reborn gives an enigmatic smile. “Most of them,” he says, and suddenly Tsuna wants to vomit.

( _“What was it like?”_

_Xanxus gives him a measuring look, but doesn’t try to misunderstand the question._

_“Like being burned alive. But you can never get used to the pain. Every instant is new.”_ )

“Great odds for me, then,” he says softly, trying to keep from remembering any more.

_—red eyes wide and furious but seeing nothing—_

_Stop that,_ he tells himself.

Looking down the street, trying to find a distraction, he notices Kyoko’s barely a block away and winces. Ducking around a corner suddenly looks incredibly appealing. This meeting is going to be so awkward, and he has only himself to blame. He really should expect people in his life to run into him at inconvenient times, when he’s with inconvenient people.

She waves as she catches sight of him, and he waves back, a little tentative, and waits for her to reach his corner.

“Are you okay, Tsuna-kun?” is the first thing out of her mouth when she’s close enough to speak without shouting, and Tsuna can _feel_ himself blushing. He hadn’t thought that his discomfort with the idea of her meeting Reborn was that obvious.

“I’m fine,” he says, trying to keep his voice even. She gives him a suspicious look, which Tsuna would bet she borrowed from Hana, but lets it go.

Then Kyoko catches sight of Reborn, and Tsuna can practically see her brain shift into an entirely different gear.

“How cute,” Kyoko all but coos, crouching down to be on Reborn’s level. “Is he related to you, Tsuna-kun?”

Tsuna almost laughs at the idea of being related to Reborn. He can only imagine the amount of ducking he’d be doing in the name of ‘family bonding’ if he and Reborn were actually related. Only being Family is bad enough.

“Ciaossu,” Reborn says, polite as ever, and Kyoko’s smile widens.

“Why are you wearing a suit?” She asks, and Tsuna can’t quite tell if she’s actually as clueless as she looks about the weirdness around her, or if she’s playing them all.

(That sounds about right for Sasagawa Kyoko in general, the other says.)

“I’m in the mafia,” Reborn says, almost absolutely serious. It’s only Tsuna’s long experience with all the shadings of the hitman’s tone that lets him here the tiniest edge of laughter to the statement. He rolls his eyes, feeling safe in his ability to weather Reborn’s eventual revenge.

“Wow,” she replies, “how cool! Tsuna-kun, is he making you help with his work?”

Tsuna smiles, only a little awkward, and nods. “I should still be on time to school though. If I’m not, let Hibari-san know I’m sorry for not entertaining him today?”

“Okay,” Kyoko says, smiling, but there’s a shadow to her expression now, and Tsuna feels a little bad for putting it there. But the other knows Kyouya (and so does he, at this point), and if Tsuna doesn’t give Kyouya the chance to beat him up, the prefect will be in a snit for the rest of the day, and that’s just not worth it.

“Good luck,” Kyoko tells them, standing up. “Bye for now!”

“Ciao,” Reborn calls after her, smiling a little.

He waits until she’s out of earshot to turn, and look Tsuna up and down.

“You have a crush on her,” says, finally, and Tsuna just shrugs.

“Kyoko’s the school idol,” he says, which isn’t an agreement. “I’m kind of at the bottom of the food chain.”

Reborn nods, tugging a little at the brim of his hat, before looking up with a smile that Tsuna distrusts just on principle.

“Have you told her yet?”

Tsuna rolls his eyes so hard it hurts. This repetition borders on absurd, since he kind of _doesn’t_ have a crush on Kyoko anymore. He can’t say exactly what his feelings are, not yet, but it’s not a crush. Reborn’s off-target in a way that’s out of character for the hitman.

Then again, time travel might screw up his tells, just a little bit.

“We’re friends,” he says. “That’s more than enough.”

“Hm,” Reborn says, which Tsuna doesn’t expect. It doesn’t quite fit the script he sort-of remembers, and that makes him wary.

“What?” he asks, and Reborn just pulls out a gun from nowhere in that way Tsuna never figured out, even years later.

“You’ll understand when you die,” the Arcobaleno says, and promptly shoots Tsuna in the head.

* * *

Reborn watches his newest student fall backward with mild curiosity. So far Sawada Tsunayoshi has seemed to be entirely ordinary, though the notes on his personality have been almost completely inaccurate, as Timoteo warned.

The question now is whether or not Tsunayoshi’s Flame is worthy of the Vongola’s legacy.

The boy hits the asphalt of the street and lies still for a worrying moment.

If Reborn has managed to accidentally murder the Vongola’s last heir, even he’s not going to be able to escape the hammer Timoteo will bring down in revenge.

Then Tsunayoshi leaps up, bursting out of his clothes, wearing nothing but blue boxers, patterned with rubber ducks.

He doesn’t say anything, which is unusual, but there are those who are quiet under the influence of their Dying Will. It’s rarer than those who scream out their intent to the world, but it does happen.

The Flame Tsunayoshi bears though, burning bright on his forehead and in his eyes, is one of the purest, strongest Sky flames Reborn has ever seen. It bodes well for the Vongola, even if Tsunayoshi is just a raw schoolboy right now. When Reborn has finished with him, cut and polished him like a gemstone, he will be a great mafia boss, worthy of the legacy he’s to inherit.

Tsunayoshi stands still for a single instant, his face distant and his head cocked slightly, as though listening to something no one else can hear.

Then, like he’s finally pinpointed the right sound, Tsunayoshi _moves_ , bare feet digging into asphalt and kicking off with impressive force.

Oddly enough, though, he runs in the opposite direction from the girl Reborn had assumed he had a crush on.

Curious, Reborn follows.

Tsunayoshi runs, breakneck, never stopping for more than a second, and several times adjusting his course on the fly. He leaps over barriers and cars as though they’re not even there, and, in one striking instance, vaults over a crowd of people like they’re little more than an inconvenience.

Reborn keeps pace, just out of sight, watching as his new student follows some impossible homing instinct, until he finds a middle-aged woman walking on a quiet street.

She looks quite a bit like Kyoko, Reborn notices, and he wonders if there’s any relation.

Tsunayoshi skids to a stop almost a block away. Instead of bolting down the road, he approaches her with quiet footsteps, and an air of earnestness, of honesty and seriousness, falls like a cloak around him.

When he finally reaches, her, standing at a polite distance, she looks up and stares, obviously more than a little surprised to see him. Reborn can’t quite tell if she’s surprised by the boxers, or just plain doesn’t notice what Tsunayoshi’s wearing. Either one is possible, as Tsunayoshi bows to her, deeper than a greeting warrants, and looks at her with eyes full of Flame.

“I’m very sorry, Sasagawa-san,” Tsunayoshi says, after a moment, and his voice is grave, too old for his face, and the sorrow that drives this apology is all too apparent. “I should have never—”

Exactly what Tsunayoshi should never have done will have to remain unknown, it seems, as the flame on his brow flickers, and goes out. The weight of presence that made the boy so compelling vanishes, and he’s just a skinny kid in his boxers, a few purple bruises still healing on his sides and upper arms.

He shivers for a second, his knees going weak, and then firms his stance and continues gamely. “—I should never have involved you in my family troubles. Thank you very much for taking care of me. I apologize for intruding into your house earlier this week.”

It’s obviously not what he was going to say originally, which is interesting. What exactly is Tsunayoshi hiding? There’s nothing to indicate that he’s involved in anything mafia-related, so far as Reborn can tell, but that doesn’t make sense. Civilian children don’t just ambush mafia bosses with detailed knowledge of their lives and secrets.

Reborn frowns. It’s unfortunate that the apology wasn’t finished before the Dying Will Bullet wore off. It would likely have provided some ideas about exactly what the boy is hiding. Reborn tugs his hat down over his eyes and smiles a little, in spite of himself.

He has plenty of time to ferret out secrets and terrorize the Vongola heir into honesty. It might even be fun.

* * *

Coming back to himself, midway through apologizing to Sasagawa-san for killing her children possibly ranks as one of Tsuna’s least favorite experiences with a Dying Will Bullet. And he has a vast number of Dying Will Bullet experiences, thanks to the other’s early adventures with a trigger-happy baby hitman.

The wild torrent of energy that brought him to this place has winked out, and Tsuna can feel his knees trying to collapse for an instant, before he locks them and changes what he was about to say.

“I should never have involved you in my family troubles,” he says, instead of _I should never have involved your family in my war_. “Thank you very much for taking care of me. I apologize for intruding into your house earlier this week.”

 _I deserved what you did to me_. _I apologize for getting your children killed_.

He doesn’t say the words, but they won’t quite go away either, as he bows again to the wide-eyed ghost of the woman who did not invite him to the memorial or the funeral.

He doesn’t wait for a response either, but turns and walks away, trying his best to keep from shivering too obviously in the chill.

While deep in his Dying Will, the wildfire of artificially released energy might keep him warm in just his boxers, but without the protection of his Flame, the morning is really far too cold for what he’s wearing. His feet ache from the chill of the asphalt, and he can feel goosebumps rising all over his skin. Chafing his hands over his arms, he sighs and looks at Reborn.

“I don’t suppose you might have a change of clothes on hand?” he asks. When Reborn just raises an eyebrow, Tsuna sighs, and resigns himself to detouring by his house for a new uniform on his way back to the school.

“Kyouya’s going to _kill me_ ,” he mutters under his breath, orienting himself on his mental map of Namimori, courtesy of the other and his time skipping school recently. It’s not terribly _far_ to go, to get to his house and then to school, but he’s still going to be late, and Kyouya’s not going to be very pleased by it.

Only way to make it less bad is to get moving though, so Tsuna plots out his course and starts walking, keeping to less-traveled streets to avoid as much of the staring as he can.

Reborn keeps pace, offering no commentary but seeming both amused and intrigued. Tsuna doesn’t ask, just keeps walking. He probably doesn’t want to know what Reborn’s thinking, and besides that, it’s unlikely that Reborn will tell him anything useful anyway.

There are a few stumbles as Tsuna accidentally steps directly on gravel, and one notable incident when Tsuna barely keeps a litany of Italian curses behind his teeth because a piece of glass barely the size of his smallest toenail embeds itself in his foot.

Taking it out means that he leaves a series of bloody footprints behind him, but it’s only a few blocks from his house, and before long he’s stumbling inside, wiping the blood off on the mat inside the door.

He’ll need to wash it before his mother sees it, but for now he’s just concerned with getting a new uniform and a pair of shoes on.

Stumbling up to the second floor, Tsuna surveys himself, and makes a face. The soles of his feet are black with dirt and mud and blood, and he probably should scrub them clean, if only to make sure the cut on his foot doesn’t end up infected.

Getting himself cleaned off and into new clothes takes about half an hour, maybe a little less, and Tsuna can’t help but sigh about how annoyed Kyouya is definitely going to be when he finally makes it into school.

Just as his old bruises were healing up, too. Why is this his life?

Still, he pulls on his shoes, picks up the backpack full of blank notebooks he started keeping when bullies started to find it fun to take his things, and starts back along the path to school.

“Am I going to get that uniform and bag back?” he asks idly, as he and Reborn approach Namimori Middle. “It’ll be hard to pull up my grades like Mom wants without my notes.”

Reborn just smiles from where he’s walking on the brick wall by the sidewalk. “Don’t worry about that,” he says. “Everything will be taken care of.”

Tsuna has enough self-control to keep the words _that’s_ why _I’m worried about it_ behind his teeth as they enter school grounds. He doesn’t need to have Reborn throwing kicks at his face when, as soon as they reach the school doors, chances are he’ll have a pissed-off school prefect trying to beat his face in with tonfas.

One bloodthirsty maniac interested in his self-improvement at a time.

Barely thirty seconds later, still several meters from the door, Tsuna’s Intuition screams a warning, and before his brain quite catches up, he’s ducking out of the way of a tonfa aimed directly at his face.

Throwing himself backwards to open the range between them, Tsuna huffs out an annoyed breath. Today is just not his day. A Dying Will Bullet to the forehead, awkward conversations halfway across town with Sasagawa-san, bleeding all over the entryway to his house, and now, like a maraschino cherry of pain on top of the sundae of awful the day is already shaping up to be, he’s being attacked by Hibari Kyouya, who apparently doesn’t appreciate being told he might be slighted.

Bracing himself, reaching out to that faint, singing echo of Flame under his skin, Tsuna squares his shoulders and lunges to meet Kyouya’s next attack. The sooner he takes his punishment, the sooner he can start thinking about avoiding Reborn’s questions.

Besides, maybe if he puts on an interesting enough show, Reborn will forget about what Tsuna said to Sasagawa-san.

Tsuna grunts as Kyouya slams an unusually vicious blow into his shoulder.

 _Yeah, right_ , he thinks, dodging the next blow. _Like Reborn ever forgets_ anything _._

* * *

Tsunayoshi clearly has the Vongola Intuition in spades, if the way he reacts to being attacked is any indication. There was barely any warning before the first strike, and yet Tsunayoshi was already moving, avoiding a vicious strike aimed at his face with practiced grace.

Reborn rests a hand on his gun, in case he’s needed, but his charge is unworried, if intent, and seems to know his attacker. Besides, the dark-haired boy with the tonfas wears the Namimori Middle uniform, albeit a black jacket pinned to his shoulders. It’s likely just a schoolyard scuffle, if atypically vicious.

It seems, in fact, to be well-worn routine for Tsunayoshi, who dodges tonfa strikes with the same absent concentration that Reborn saw from him on that first day, when Tsunayoshi had restrained himself from fighting back after being kicked.

This time, he clearly has no such reservations, executing a snap-kick at the other boy’s face that would have resulted in a broken nose, except for the way his opponent leans out of the way, as though it was expected.

The two of them range back and forth across the school grounds, and Reborn is reluctantly impressed. Tsunayoshi is intensely focused, and seems to read the flow of the fight easily. He sometimes makes strange mistakes though, as though he’s trying to execute maneuvers he’s only seen pictures of, or he expects to have more reach and height than he actually does. His balance though, is impeccable, which doesn’t make sense if Tsunayoshi really does expect a different body.

Still, it’s an unusual display of talent for a middle schooler, on the parts of both boys. They’ve already been fighting for something like ten minutes, and neither of them shows signs of stopping, though Tsuna is already panting heavily.

Reborn makes a mental note to work on his student’s endurance. He’ll need to be able to last much longer if he’s going to survive the trials the mafia will throw at him. Still, for a child who he expected to be essentially useless, Tsunayoshi shows impressive ability.

A bell rings out, likely signaling a change in classes, and Tsunayoshi takes instant advantage of the tiny distraction it causes his opponent. Ducking under a striking arm and dashing towards the school doors, the boy calls out, “I don’t want to miss third period too, Hibari-san! I’ll see you at lunch!”

The dark-haired boy, ‘Hibari’, apparently, shifts, as if to continue the attack, and then makes a noise of irritated agreement, tonfas vanishing. Tsunayoshi nods, smiles quickly, if a bit nervously, and vanishes into the school.

Reborn frowns consideringly to himself. It’s good that Tsunayoshi has some skill in defending himself, but that does rather beg the question of where and how he learned. It could just be schoolyard brawling, but Reborn almost doubts it. There’s nothing concrete to it, just a feeling, but he’s learned to trust his feelings over the years.

Still, there’s another bit of good news to come out of this. If the Hibari boy has any kind of Flame potential, Reborn rather thinks he’s already found one of Tsunayoshi’s Guardians.

Finding out if the boy has potential will be annoying and time consuming, but Reborn is never tapped for easy jobs.

And, if Tsunayoshi keeps to pattern, at least the next few years of training the boy up shouldn’t be _boring_.

* * *

Leaning back in his chair, Tsuna bites back a groan at the stretch of bruised muscles. Kyouya had no mercy today, probably because Tsuna was exceptionally late. Two classes missed, though Tsuna could probably have made it in halfway through second period if Kyouya hadn’t decided that punishment for his truancy took precedent.

For someone who barely shows up to school or to classes, Kyouya’s dedication to making sure everyone else is present and on time feels ever so slightly hypocritical. And it _hurts_.

Still, Tsuna flexes his fingers, feels the barest flicker of potential resting under his skin, waiting in his blood, and smiles. It’s good, to have his Flame back, to know it’s real. _Not enough_ , the other says, restless, _not enough to save everyone. Not yet_.

 _I’ll be better this time_ , he lets himself whisper back, and savors the way that moving during the morning felt. The memory is etched in flame, so definitively his and not the other’s. He might be able to avoid losing quite so badly this time.

(He can’t help but think that ending up as the head of the Vongola is a kind of losing.

 _Yes, but_ , the other says, showing him Hayato and Shamal and Spanner and dozens of the other people who he took in over the few years he held the Family, _losing has its own benefits_.)

He does try to pay attention to the teacher, but they’ve all started to ignore him, since he started knowing the answers even when he’s been sleeping. Apparently without the humiliation factor, there’s no reason to call on him in class.

That probably says unfortunate things about Namimori Middle, but so did finding out that Nezu had faked his records and no one had caught him. There’s a reason that some of the most brilliant people Tsuna knows scraped together the money for different schools.

* * *

Reborn watches Tsunayoshi Sawada, and what he sees doesn’t make any sense. A non-Mafia child who’d had as much social trouble as Tsunayoshi seems to have once had might have similar reflexes to what Tsunayoshi displays. A mafia child might react instinctively to threats with an attempt to fight back. It’s unlikely, but it happens sometimes.

But Tsunayoshi also combines a truly incredible spatial and kinesthetic awareness while fighting with what seems to be a complete inability to concentrate while out of combat. The boy practically sleepwalks through class, his mind clearly not present, except when a teacher snaps a ruler down on another student’s desk. He startles into awareness then, but it’s not _attention_. Tsunayoshi’s _afraid_ , for that split second before he recognizes the sound and drifts off again.

It’s not boredom, or at least not _just_ boredom, and it’s not inability either. Tsunayoshi’s grades might be awful and his teachers might comment regularly on how much he sleeps in class, but Reborn has his backpack, and with it, all of Tsunayoshi’s notes from the last several months. Recent notes are written not just in Japanese, but also sometimes in perfect Italian, or in a cipher Reborn has never seen before.

The amount of skill and fluency it takes to transcribe notes in different languages or in cipher is more than enough to give the lie to whatever the teachers’ reports say about Tsunayoshi.

The problem though, is that the notebooks Reborn has, from Tsunayoshi’s dropped backpack, go back for months, and this kind of code-switching is only evident in the last few weeks, since just before Iemitsu and the Ninth decided to visit Japan to check on Tsunayoshi.

People don’t change that quickly. Either Tsunayoshi has been hiding his intelligence, and recently decided to stop—an unlikely theory, as his academic performance is consistent throughout his school career until just a few weeks ago—or something has happened, and Tsunayoshi is capitalizing on everyone’s relative ignorance of his character to have it go unnoticed.

Reborn refuses to be one of those who is fooled. He watches Tsunayoshi closely, and as the lunch hour starts, he’s rewarded.

Tsunayoshi eats quickly, with two girls who seem to be his only friends, one of them Kyoko. Their chatter seems inane, mostly about classes and homework. Apparently Tsunayoshi has a knack for physics that isn’t reflected in his grades, and the dark haired girl hates their mathematics teacher and the entire concept of their Japanese class. It’s very typically schoolchild conversation, until approximately fifteen minutes have passed.

Then, after glancing at the clock, Tsunayoshi stands up from his desk, where the three have been eating, and tidies up after himself.

“Hibari again?” the dark haired girl asks, raising a sardonic brow.

“I think if I stopped now, my life would become more painful than it already is,” Tsunayoshi says lightly, before stripping off his uniform jacket and folding it over his arm. “If I’m not back before class starts, ask Kusakabe to come get me?”

The dark-haired girl gives a put-upon sigh, but nods her head, and Tsunayoshi smiles

“Good luck Tsuna-kun,” Kyoko chirps, and Tsunayoshi smiles at her, before leaving the classroom.

Reborn follows the boy out of the classroom, up the stairs, and out onto the roof, which is empty but for a single person—the student who attacked Tsunayoshi just hours ago.

“Hibari-san,” Tsunayoshi says, nodding respectfully, as he closes the door to the roof behind himself and approaching.

There’s a small scuffle as the two meet in the middle of the roof, but it seems more pro forma than anything else, and it ends with Tsunayoshi falling easily to the ground, uninjured. A moment later, his opponent follows.

“If you wake me,” the boy, Hibari, says without inflection, “I’ll bite you to death.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tsunayoshi says lazily, lying down and tucking his jacket under his head, closing his eyes.

Hibari just snorts and pillows his head on Tsunayoshi’s ribs. The boy closes his own eyes, falling asleep almost instantly, as far as Reborn can tell.

That’s an impressive display of trust, on both parts, as far as Reborn can tell. He’s met people like Hibari before, and they rarely like to be vulnerable around others. Tsunayoshi, on the other hand, has a tendency to look _through_ people, rather than at them. But here Tsunayoshi seems to be absolutely content, no matter that the boy using him as a pillow no doubt inflicted some grievous bruises not so very long ago.

Reborn wonders how far that trust extends. After all, Tsunayoshi likely knows that Reborn is about, if not exactly what he’s up to. It might be worthwhile to test exactly how aware the boy is.

Keeping the sound of his movement silent, Reborn hops out of hiding and approaches the boys. He doesn’t bother to hide his presence, beyond the silence of his movement. It will be an interesting test of their awareness.

Tsunayoshi opens one eye almost as soon as Reborn reaches easy sighting distance. There’s a long moment where the boy just surveys Reborn, before he sighs and closes his eye again, the corner of his mouth quirking up. Once his eyes close, Tsunayoshi seems, for all the world, to fall back asleep instantly, perhaps falling even more deeply asleep.

It’s a strange display of trust from a person Reborn would have expected to be completely wary of him. Still, Reborn just tugs a little on the brim of his hat, and settles himself to keep the watch. If his charge is going to be far too trusting, it’s up to Reborn to at least make sure he survives getting it beat out of him.

Approximately half an hour later, a bell rings, Reborn assumes for the end of the lunch period, and both of the middle schoolers stir. Reborn makes his escape back into the hidden crawlspaces he’s been using all day, just before either boy regains enough coherence to notice him.

“Thank you, Hibari-san,” Tsunayoshi says as he stands up, brushing some dust off of his uniform.

Hibari just grunts, and then says, “Get to class, herbivore.”

Tsunayoshi smiles, and gets.

* * *

There’s something _off_ about Tsunayoshi, Reborn thinks, not for the first time, as he watches Tsunayoshi make his way through the rest of the school day. It’s nothing that he can quite put a finger on, just an amalgamation of a variety of factors. Tsunayoshi’s demonstrated knowledge of Vongola affairs, as he displayed to Timoteo. The easy way he accepted Reborn’s existence, experience as a hitman, and stated goal. The way the boy fights, like he’s accustomed to a body at least six inches taller.

The way Tsunayoshi looked at him when he arrived, looked at him on the rooftop, looks at him every time, like the boy knows Reborn better than anyone alive should. It’s unnerving.

Personally, Reborn thinks it’s unlikely that Tsunayoshi is truly a threat to the Vongola, no matter what exactly it is he’s hiding. But it’s equally clear that he _is_ hiding something, and Reborn doesn’t like secrets. They tend to bite.

Confronting the boy is likely to be the best approach, if only because it might startle him into honesty. The only problem is finding a time when they will not be observed or interrupted.

That’s okay though. Reborn is patient.

* * *

It takes most of the rest of the day for the moment to present itself. He watches Tsunayoshi struggle to pay attention in classes and take scatterbrained, disorganized notes. Still, the boy answers the questions his teachers ask him correctly. The level of obvious absent-mindedness seems to irritate them, but Reborn doesn’t much care. It’s still more proof that _something_ changed Tsunayoshi, that the earlier grades in his records aren’t just an elaborate ruse.

Tsunayoshi walks home with the two girls he ate his lunch with, and Reborn follows from a distance, out of sight. The trio’s conversation seems to be mostly a continuation of the one they had at lunch—a typical student conversation about homework and teachers.

Still, when Tsuna leaves them to enter his own house, Kyoko stops him with a hand on his forearm.

“Everything’s okay, right, Tsuna-kun?” she asks, and there’s genuine worry in her voice and the furrow between her brows. The other girl crosses her arms, but seems to support Kyoko’s question. There’s something here that Reborn doesn’t know, something that the three of them share that never made it into the briefing Timoteo gave him.

Tsunayoshi smiles, completely genuinely as far as Reborn can tell.

“Everything’s fine,” he says, and the frown on Kyoko’s face eases. “I’ll let you know if anything happens.”

That seems to soothe Kyoko, though the dark-haired girl just snorts disbelievingly, drawing a quick laugh from Tsunayoshi.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, and makes his way into the house. Reborn follows, carefully avoiding being seen by either of the girls.

Once he and Tsunayoshi are inside the Sawada house, there’s no opportunity for any sort of interrogation. First, Tsunayoshi sets to doing his homework, which is impressively well-done for what Reborn expected. There are a few errors, but it hardly requires the sort of measures he used on Dino.

A pity, that. Explosives would have relieved his stress at not knowing what’s going on nicely.

Still, with Nana coming in and out of the room to check on them, it’s not the right time to ask awkward questions. Besides, even if she hadn’t been around, homework is important. Reborn can’t have his newest student’s grades be anything but excellent.

Examining Tsunayoshi’s Japanese homework, Reborn considers his options. It’s likely that Nana will be making dinner soon, and afterwards it’s looking like Tsunayoshi will have more work to finish correcting. But once the boy has gone to bed, Reborn rather thinks they won’t be disturbed.

Besides, Tsunayoshi might be more willing to answer questions if he doesn’t actually have to look at anyone.

Plan made, Reborn returns to covering Tsunayoshi’s Japanese homework with red ink.

* * *

 

Reborn is Up To Something, Tsuna knows, and the capital letters are thoroughly deserved.

Reborn is, of course, often up to something, but the other never felt this much like it was going to bite.

Of course, the other didn’t have to deal with being anything more than exactly what Reborn expected, Tsuna points out to himself, and makes a face.

Pulling on his pajamas, he wonders if being so different from expected is why he hasn’t had to deal with explosives, electricity, or terrifying threats yet. It’s not that avoiding all of those things, which make his knees want to quiver, is an awful fate. But it’s unexpected, and what he knows about Reborn means that ‘unexpected’ is almost always a sign that disaster is coming.

Flicking off the light and picking his way across his (now clean) floor, Tsuna sits down on his bed, thinking, listening for any sound from Reborn’s corner of the room. There’s a tension in the air that makes his skin itch, and he’s not sure if he wants Reborn to break it. He’s not sure what the consequences will be.

So he sits there, quiet, thinking, trying to see if there’s a way to avoid the pitfalls his past-future self fell into and trying to ignore the way the tension in the room rises, the way he can feel Reborn’s gaze on him.

Finally, there’s a soft sound of fabric shifting, and Tsuna bites his lip.

"What are you hiding?" Reborn asks, and his voice is utterly flat, like it sometimes is when Reborn is talking to deadly enemies, and it hurts, even though it shouldn’t, to have that tone used on him. Tsuna knows—because the other knows Reborn like breathing—that the hitman has his hand on some weapon or another, hidden from view.

Just the thought leaves Tsuna _exhausted_. It’s too much, right now, like everything is bearing down on him all at once. It’s only going to get worse from here, and Tsuna doesn’t even have Reborn on his side, the way the other did, whenever things started crashing down.

There's nothing for it though. He's never been any good at hiding things from Reborn and he stopped trying a long time ago. Or the other Tsuna did. The difference has been becoming more and more academic. Besides, if he tells the truth it’ll get him some leverage with Reborn in the future, some wiggle room to do what he thinks is best, rather than blindly following the hitman’s lead. He’ll need that leverage, he can already see it.

He sighs, trying to figure out how to reply, and scrubs his hands over his face. It doesn’t manage to make him feel any less tired. The sensation of the world working on a script only he has read is terrifying and boring all at once, and it makes him want to sleep for a week or ten.

"Are you sure you want to know?" he asks, and he lets himself slip into Italian for emphasis, ignoring the way that Reborn’s eyes widen slightly at the sound, only interested in the way it sparks the hitman’s fullest attention. "Once you know, it's all downhill. Like a rabbit hole.” His voice hitches slightly, turns wry. “Or a goddamn avalanche."

Reborn fixes him with a flat stare, one brow arching in slow eloquence. Tsuna sighs again, because asking that question was stupid, but still necessary. He runs a hand through his hair, trying to calm himself, before collapsing onto his bed and staring at the ceiling.

"Since it’s you who’s asking," he says, after a moment, even though Reborn won’t know why it matters and it won’t matter to him anyway.

Rubbing his face again, he readies himself to tell the whole sorry story of what happened the last time someone put Loser-Tsuna in charge of a mafia famiglia. Not the details, since Reborn doesn’t know the people involved well enough to _care_ , but the broad strokes, the shape of what was, once.

The shape of what he’s hoping to make sure will never be.

He's not going to sleep well for the next two weeks or so, but Tsuna has never kept anything from Reborn when directly asked, and he's not about to start. Keeping his eyes fixed on the ceiling, ignoring the urge to look at his tutor, at one of his best friends, at the stranger in his room, Tsuna braces himself, and speaks.

“It started a little while ago, in math class. Or eight years ago, when you showed up to make me Vongola the Tenth. Or a few weeks ago, when a traitor murdered me. Time travel’s fucked up like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, kudos and comments are appreciated, and I can be found (and yelled at to work on chapter 9) over on tumblr as [boycottromance](boycottromance.tumblr.com)


	9. if you are alone, come forth now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The best solution that Reborn can think of is to give the boy someone to use as an obvious reference point. Fortunately, he had already planned on forcing responsibility for_ someone _on Tsunayoshi, and so he already has the perfect person on his payroll._
> 
>  _Now, he just has to break the news to his student, preferably at some point when it will be at least mildly amusing. If Tsunayoshi’s going to be_ this much trouble _, Reborn wants to get at least a little entertainment out of this job._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [babybirdblues](http://www.babybirdblues.tumblr.com) was a blessing on this chapter, and is responsible for most of what got it out in decent time. [eeddis](http://www.eeddis.tumblr.com) and [ahoderahayato](http://www.ahoderahayato.tumblr.com) were, as always, utterly invaluable in making this chapter coherent and readable, because god knows i screw up my grammar all the time. 
> 
> In other news, this chapter is almost 10k of feels, so I hope all of you are ready.

Reborn can’t quite find it in himself to believe Tsunayoshi’s story.

Time travel is a preposterous excuse for anything. It’s utterly impossible. Even the rare so-called ‘exceptions’ are all short duration jumps, which reverse themselves without causing any real impact on the timeline. The Bovino Family’s bazooka is perhaps the best example of that, and exactly how it works is...suspect.

(He’s always found the math behind the Ten Year Bazooka to be a little _off_ , to be honest. Too much result for too little energy output, energy seeming to appear from nothing. It violates thermodynamics to hell and back. He’s just never bothered fighting with a third-class family about their delusions of grandeur.)

Still, Reborn finds that, in spite of his skepticism, he trusts that _something_ happened to Tsunayoshi. Something that has had a deep, lasting effect, and that somehow involved the Vongola.

During the entire hour Tsunayoshi tried to explain the basics of a future gone to hell, his eyes remained level, even if he never met Reborn’s own. To make it worse, his story was far too internally consistent, full of a thousand details about Italy and half a dozen other countries that a Japanese schoolboy has no way of learning.

Reborn tries to imagine it—the Vongola on the run, hunted down and dying in droves, their boss just one of many targets, unprotected enough that an assassin could get to him, could gut him and leave him dying on a warehouse floor for hours.

Vongola bosses are never that unprotected, not even when the Family has its back to the wall, even when they’re at war. They’re too valuable.

But Tsunayoshi knows things about the Vongola that even Reborn shouldn’t know, and doesn’t seem to think it odd. He didn’t say anything, directly, but Reborn can extrapolate from very little evidence, and he can see how the Vongola, now, could become the Vongola that Tsunayoshi spoke of, given a few more years.

It irks Reborn to think that something so strange, so _impossible_ , might be the only explanation, but he’s never been one to ignore the things staring him in the face. Certainly, it might not have been _exactly_ time travel—Reborn can think of half a dozen ways to create a similar effect to what Tsunayoshi describes—but Tsunayoshi certainly seems to think that it was time travel. And besides, none of the techniques Reborn can think of work quite so thoroughly, as far as he knows.

So. He has what seems to be a thirteen-going-on-thirty-five student now, and he’s just going to have to deal with that as best he can.

Resigned to doing all of his reconnaissance over again, Reborn spends the next several days watching his student, and a great deal of what was previously incomprehensible about Tsunayoshi starts to make sense, with the new information he has. Constant overreaching and overbalancing in combat suddenly becomes understandable—all of the memories the boy uses in combat come from an older, taller body. The way he dozes through class and still turns in better-than-average work is to be expected from a twenty-something mafia boss being forced to repeat middle school.

Perhaps the way that Tsunayoshi won’t meet anyone’s eyes is a result of remembering too much tragedy. Maybe the way he both carefully watches and desperately avoids certain people is an attempt at defending himself against a loss that hasn’t happened yet.

That Tsunayoshi has even two friends (three, if the boy who keeps asking for Tsunayoshi to join the boxing club counts) is unexpected, given how much older than people his own age he must feel.

Still, even those few friends aren’t enough. Just from watching the boy for a few days that much is clear. Tsunayoshi comes unmoored sometimes. For seconds or hours, he’ll drift, not sure whether he’s thirteen or twenty-two or somewhere between the two. It’s a worrying thing to see in someone who will one day be responsible for thousands of lives and need to make split-second decisions to preserve them.

The best solution that Reborn can think of is to give the boy someone to use as an obvious reference point. Fortunately, he had already planned on forcing responsibility for _someone_ on Tsunayoshi, and so he already has the perfect person on his payroll.

Now, he just has to break the news to his student, preferably at some point when it will be at least mildly amusing. If Tsunayoshi’s going to be _this much trouble_ , Reborn wants to get at least a little entertainment out of this job.

* * *

 

Tsuna’s been keeping an eye on Reborn for the last few days, because the hitman’s been giving off a smug air that’s above and beyond his normal level, and Tsuna would really like not to be caught out by his sadist of a tutor.

It’s early afternoon, and Tsuna is poking around the kitchen for a snack after school when Reborn finally decides to reveal what he’s been keeping under his hat.

“I’m bringing the Smokin’ Bomb to Japan,” Reborn says, utterly casual, like it doesn’t mean anything, and Tsuna has to grip the back of his chair to stay upright, his vision swimming as memories slam down on him, called up by the name.

He pushes them back with an effort of will, takes a deep breath and forces his emotions down, regains his balance.

“Are you going to trick him into fighting me this time?” Tsuna asks, trying for causal and not quite succeeding. He takes his time uncurling his fingers from their white-knuckled grip on the chair, and makes himself taking a seat, pulling one knee close to his chest and resting his cheek against it.

Reborn gives him a single slow look, and then shakes his head. “It’s not necessary, Dame-Tsuna. You can already fight and you know your Flame. Besides which, you want him enough to convince him yourself.”

Tsuna grimaces at Reborn’s astuteness and insight into his personality. It hasn’t been very long, and the hitman already has him pegged. Still, he lets the comment pass. It’s true enough that arguing isn’t at all worthwhile.

“When will he be getting here?” he asks instead.

Almost as soon as he’s finished his question, the doorbell rings.

Reborn smirks, and Tsuna closes his eyes in a silent prayer for patience. He’s half too inexperienced for these games, half too old for them, which just makes them all the more irritating to deal with. Reborn is probably having the time of his _life_.

Sighing, he gets to his feet and makes his way to the door.

Unsurprisingly, there’s a silver-haired teenager on the other side when he opens it. Surprisingly, he looks nervous, far from the fierce, short-tempered young man the memories make Tsuna already fond of.

It’s the worried edge to the look on Hayato’s face that makes the memories surge, this time, and for an instant the face of an older Hayato is superimposed over the younger, green eyes terrified, a smear of blood across one cheek.

Tsuna blinks and deliberately forces the image away. Enough time for that in his nightmares.

Even so, he wants to wrap his arms around Hayato and sob apologies into his shoulder, to press close and never let him go again. But that wouldn’t do him any good, and might alienate one of the people Tsuna _needs_. So instead, he smiles and steps back from the door.

“Gokudera Hayato, yes?” he says. “Reborn mentioned you. Come in, we have a lot to discuss.”

* * *

Once Hayato has been seated at the kitchen table, Tsuna offers him food. It seems to make Hayato even more uncomfortable, which makes Tsuna frown. But the other’s memories aren’t any help for making people comfortable in his house—mafia bosses generally don’t _want_ strangers to be at their ease. The only way Tsuna knows to make people relax is to offer them food, which he learned from his mother, and that’s clearly not working.

Biting his lip, Tsuna sits back down himself and prepares himself for an uncomfortable conversation.

Hayato watches him with wary green eyes, and Tsuna realizes, after a glance at Reborn, who is drinking coffee with supreme unconcern, that this is all on him.

 _“You want him enough to convince him yourself,”_ yeah _thanks_ , Reborn. Tsuna restrains a sigh and turns a smile on Hayato instead.

“Why did Reborn ask you to come here?” Tsuna asks him, pasting curiosity over worry and his own nerves. It’s a weak bit of faking, but it’s unlikely that he’ll be called out on it at the table.

Hayato darts a nervous glance at Reborn before answering, and Tsuna has to quash a flare of irritation. His Guardians should _never_ look to someone else before him—

But Hayato isn’t his Guardian yet.

“Reborn said—” Hayato hesitates. “Reborn said that his student needed subordinates.”

The next flash of irritation is more pronounced, but Tsuna crushes it ruthlessly. He _knows_ Hayato—if he sees Tsuna irritated with his answers, he’ll immediately jump to the wrong conclusions, and Tsuna will have to chase Hayato all the way to the _airport_ to get him to come back.

Tsuna doesn’t have the energy for that. He’ll yell at Reborn for putting it like that later. Instead he sighs.

“Reborn is being a meddler.”

Hayato goes a little grey at that, which was genuinely not Tsuna’s intent. But then again, most people probably don’t know Reborn inside out and backwards, and therefore know they can get away with saying things like that. And this isn’t the other’s Hayato, no matter how blurry the line is getting in Tsuna’s head. This one’s more fragile, and way more worried about things like Reborn’s dignity.

 _Damage control time_ , Tsuna thinks, a little guiltily, looking at Reborn out of the corner of his eye as he hurries to make sure Hayato’s heart doesn’t abruptly fail. The hitman just sips his coffee and looks far, far too entertained. Tsuna thinks uncharitable thoughts at him, just in case Reborn actually can read minds.

* * *

The fulminating expression on Tsunayoshi’s face is more than slightly entertaining, Reborn thinks. He’ll have to play games like this more often, if it gets such amusing reactions out of his troublesome student. He can practically _hear_ the seething thoughts in Tsunayoshi’s head, they’re so clearly written on his face. Besides, it’s one of the perks of his job to be able to laugh at his students.

Tsunayoshi dug himself that hole all on his own anyway, calling Reborn a meddler. He can get himself out of it himself too. It’ll be good for him. Educational.

Calling Reborn a _meddler_. How rude! Accurate, of course, but rude. Tsunayoshi needs training in when and where it’s appropriate to express himself so blatantly. Reborn is already planning the lessons, with what he recognizes as more than slightly unholy glee.

The sound of Tsunayoshi quickly and inelegantly backtracking to cover his slip of the tongue reminds Reborn that the lessons really are urgent. Honestly, he says he _knows_ Gokudera. He should have phrased his comments more carefully. The Smokin’ Bomb’s reputation for being high strung isn’t exactly a secret.

Then again, in spite of the clumsiness of his hurried damage control, Tsunayoshi seems to be doing rather well at soothing Gokudera’s fears. Which are unfounded, of course. Reborn isn’t the type to call people in to work for him, and then shoot them on a whim. But, well.

Freelancers are wary, and for good reason most of the time. The Smokin’ Bomb’s had a harder time than most, according to Shamal, which can’t possibly help.

And there are some people out there in the underworld who don’t remember what it means that their groups are still called _Families_. Given how wary Gokudera is, the way he watches Reborn without trying to be obvious about it and the way he’s so worried about saying the wrong thing, Reborn rather thinks that the Smokin’ Bomb has run into more than his fair share of those types.

In that case, it’s a good thing that Tsunayoshi’s decided that Gokudera is one of his people. Reborn would hate to lose someone with such promise.

* * *

Hayato’s almost managed to forget that his newest employer is absolutely _batshit_ after about fifteen minutes of steadily more soothing small talk, but that doesn’t mean he’s any less terrified of where he is, or of the person sitting not five feet from him at this kitchen table.

Which probably isn’t the most productive state of mind to be in, but he’d dare any other freelancer to feel comfortable around the new Vongola heir. Especially when said heir looks like a normal civilian, lives in a normal civilian town, has a normal civilian house, and also has the straight up _audacity_ to call Reborn a meddler in front of the hitman’s face, without turning so much as a hair.

“Gokudera-kun,” the Tenth asks, “where are you living while you’re in Japan?”

The words are almost mild, and if Hayato weren’t terrified within an inch of his life because of exactly where he is and who he’s with, he might even _believe_ that there’s no ulterior motive for the question. Unfortunately for the Tenth, he might be subtle, but Hayato is in full panicked-social-analysis mode. He misses _nothing_. Not even a mafia heir can get anything past him he is so alert.

Noticing the distinctly manic tone of his thought process, Hayato cuts it short. Unfortunately, he still has a question to answer.

“I’m not sure right now,” he says, slowly, watching Sawada’s face carefully for any cues of expression. When Sawada’s face starts to darken, Hayato hurries on“—but I’ll get an apartment soon!” He can’t help rushing the words, watching for the faintest expressions, hoping that it’s the right answer

“And tonight?” Sawada asks, steel peeking out from under mildness, brown eyes alive with something Hayato can’t quite name.

“I can get a hotel room,” Hayato says, already trying to remember the names of all the local and semi-local places he could go. It’ll cut into his funds more than he’d like, but he can get a job, and it’ll be fine. It’s not like he has a choice—the Vongola called him, _Reborn_ called him. He can’t bitch just because things are inconvenient.

“Unacceptable.” The word is like a guillotine, cutting Hayato’s thoughts short. The Tenth is no longer at all idle or mild, and his gaze is intense as he stares at Hayato across the kitchen table. Hayato has a split second to panic about exactly what he’s done wrong before the Tenth finishes his thought. “You’ll stay here.”

Hayato can’t process it at first, then can’t find the words for how monumentally _not okay_ that is, and finally just shakes his head. He can’t possibly live here, with the Vongola heir, not even for as short a time as it will take him to find the places Reborn has recommended. Not possible. He has some sort of sense of self-preservation.

“You really shouldn’t, Sawada-sama. I’ll be fine in a hotel or something.”

The Tenth sighs, running a hand through brown hair, and for a moment, he looks much older than the thirteen Reborn’s file says he is. “Hay—Gokudera-kun. You cannot possibly find an acceptable apartment in the next few days, and I refuse to force you to find a hotel room at this late date, for an unspecified amount of time. There is plenty of space in this house, and my mother will be glad for the chance to cook for someone new. Stay here tonight, at least.”

Hayato’s will crumbles. It’s something about that tired expression, about the way that it sounded like Sawada wanted to use his first name. Before he really knows what’s happening, he’s left his (pitifully small amount of) gear in a spare bedroom, been introduced to the Tenth’s mother (pretty, smiling, cheerfully pleased to have him in her house) and asked what his favorite foods are.

Hesitating a little, he glances at the Tenth, who’s just smiling at his mother, slight and fond, and thus no help at all.

“I don’t…” Hayato says, and then musters up his courage. “I’m sure whatever you make will be incredible, Sawada-sama!”

She just giggles at him, cheerful as a schoolgirl, while her son smiles to himself and fades into the background.

“No need for so much formality, Gokudera-kun! Call me Mama!”

While Hayato is still processing that, she continues chattering about this and that, while she assembles the ingredients for dinner, occasionally asking her son for his help retrieving various arcane kitchen implements. She treats Reborn like the child he seems to be, but also like a casual acquaintance, and Hayato can’t help staring, because she seems so oblivious.

How she act like this, when she’s the wife of the head of the CEDEF, when her son is going to lead the Vongola? He doesn’t know how anyone manages that. How can anyone not learn absolutely everything about these things? How can they protect themselves if they don’t?

Dinner is excellent, but Hayato can’t help but feel more than a little out of place, while the Tenth and his mother talk a little bit about people he doesn’t know, and Reborn flirts casually with her, while she giggles and remonstrates him.

Still, the food is better than anything he would have been able to make for himself, so Hayato keeps his head down and stuffs himself. There’s no telling when his next decent meal will be, and if some of the flavors are strange, nothing is _bad_ exactly.

He manages to take over part of clearing the table, which doesn’t exactly satisfy the twitchy feeling that he’s not _doing his part_ , but it helps. After that, he begs off of sitting through homework with Reborn and the Tenth, saying he needs to do research.

He does, really. It doesn’t stop Hayato from dashing into the guest room, locking the door, and proceeding to panic, very quietly, for fifteen minutes.

After that, he dives into looking up apartments for rent and the rates of nearby hotels until he his eyes are burning and he can barely see.

* * *

It’s late, but Hayato keeps dozing off and jolting awake. He can’t sleep properly, not with the sounds of so many strange people around him. It would have been far worse in a hotel, with even more strangers around, Hayato can admit that. But a hotel wouldn’t be the heart of Vongola secrets. Wouldn’t be the sort of place where he’s afraid even _breathing_ wrong is going to put him in Reborn’s sights.

Still, lying in bed isn’t going to help him sleep any better, not now that it’s passing three in the morning, according to Hayato’s watch. He has some of his notebooks in the bag he left downstairs though, and he could probably pass an hour or two trying to refine his explosives. He likes the idea of reverse pickpocketing people, leaving bombs in their pockets and belts, but if he uses the usual explosive mix, it’s not going to just incapacitate, it’s going to make a fucking charnel house.

(Hayato has a great visual imagination. Unfortunately, this means he can visualize _exactly_ what kind of holes that even scaled down dynamite would leave in people.)

He sighs, slipping out of the guest bed the Tenth and Sawada-san gave him. It’s a perfectly nice room, honestly, but Hayato hasn’t had to deal with this many new and different ambient sounds in _years_ , and it’s fucking with all of his instincts.

Tying his hair back carelessly, he picks up the jacket he hung on the door, to combat the nighttime chill of the house, and pads carefully down the hallway, already trying to balance chemical equations in his head. It’s not hard, really, and Hayato finds part of his attention wandering as he makes his quiet way through the Sawada house.

There’s a soft, wounded noise as he passes a half-open door, and Hayato’s always been too curious for his own good. He hesitates for a moment, but the sound comes again, and Hayato nudges the door open.

It’s someone’s bedroom, and, judging by the books and games scattered over the floor, it’s probably the Tenth’s.

Hayato knows he should just turn around and leave, shouldn’t involve himself any more with the Vongola’s heir, but he can’t make himself ignore what he hears. Instead, he takes several more steps into the room, as though drawn by something he can’t name, and catches a glimpse of Sawada, curled up under a blanket.

The Tenth isn’t thrashing, or screaming, or doing anything most people would recognize as indications of a nightmare, but Hayato knows that pinched-tight expression and the tiny whining noises the Tenth is making, and the way he’s shivering, just tiny little jerks of his body.

Whatever the Tenth is dreaming, it’s bad. Worse than anything any ordinary civilian child should have seen. And he’s trying to hide the nightmares too, forcing himself not to move in his sleep, to cry out. Hayato’s seen it before. He’s done it before.

He hesitates for a moment before fully approaching the bed, not sure when the lights are going to flip on and Reborn is going to shoot him for daring to presume.

Still, the Tenth makes a soft keening noise, and Hayato’s hand clenches into a fist at the pain in it. Reborn said the Tenth is basically a civilian. What could have hurt him like this? What could possibly cause nightmares _this bad_?

Taking a seat on the edge of the bed, he reaches out, a little hesitant, and rests a hand on the Tenth’s shoulder.

Almost instantly, the Tenth’s eyes snap open. They’re almost _amber_ in the shadowy half-light of the bedroom, and his expression as he regards Hayato, is, for a moment, nothing but naked shock and panic.

Hayato has only a split second to wonder exactly what that expression means, before the Tenth sobs out a breath and sits up sharply. He wraps his arms around Hayato’s shoulders, pressing so close that Hayato can almost feel the hammering of Sawada’s heartbeat against his skin.

The Tenth keeps whispering things into his shoulder that sound almost like apologies, but Hayato can’t hear them well enough to be sure. He wonders exactly what he did that warrants apologizing anyway.

Still, there’s barely a hundred pounds of sobbing kid huddled against his shoulder, and Hayato isn’t entirely heartless. Carefully, he wraps an arm around Sawada’s torso, holding him gently. He doesn’t know what’s wrong, or how to fix it, but he knows what he had wished someone would do for him, when his nightmares woke him in the middle of the night.

They stay like that, the Tenth shaking and murmuring half-voiced apologies into Hayato’s shoulder, for a long time.

* * *

Tsuna startles awake at a touch to his shoulder, panicking at the lack of a weapon to hand, at the lingering dream-agony. He’s readying himself to attack or escape almost before he’s fully aware. When his eyes finally open though, it’s _Hayato_ , and Tsuna can’t help the sob that the sight wrenches out of him, the way that he practically throws himself at his right hand, or the apologies he keeps tripping over.

_sorry i dragged you into this love you missed you i’m sorry you had to see that missed you sorry i hurt you sorry i did this to you miss you sorry sorrysorrysorry_

One part of him knows that this isn’t _his_ Hayato, but the rest of him just remembers a familiar face in the half-light and a familiar worried expression and a familiar touch and can’t tell the difference between past and future. It blurs together as Tsuna clings to his right hand, and the differences all but vanish with the weight of Hayato’s arm around him.

 _Safe_ , he can’t help but think, even if his gear is missing and he can’t smell the gunpowder and sharp-sweet of Hayato’s explosives. His Guardian is here, Reborn is around, it’s okay to let go.

* * *

Eventually, Tsuna’s emotions vent themselves, and if he still feels exhausted, at least it’s a different kind. It’s not the dragging, bored, lost exhaustion of watching a replay of his life or the pulled-tight, frenetic tiredness that always leaves him tapping his fingers and missing all of his weapons. Instead this is the kind of worn-clean exhaustion that he’s becoming accustomed to, after his emotions overwhelm him.

He draws back slightly, trying to find a little space to breathe, but Hayato seems to take that as a signal to scramble to let go of him, nearly falling off the bed in the process. Fortunately, Hayato only manages to put a few feet between them. Tsuna still can’t help feeling as though he’s lost something, but he knows he can’t expect Hayato to stay close when they’re practically strangers. That doesn’t stop him from _wanting_ Hayato close enough to touch, but it stops him from dragging his right hand closer.

Instead, he draws his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around them, examining Hayato out of the corner of his eye. He’s barely a sketch of silver and shadow in the darkness, but Tsuna has certain unfair advantages here. The tension in Hayato’s shoulders might as well be shouting to him, and Tsuna bets that Hayato’s caught between apologizing for intruding, asking if Tsuna is okay and just running away.

He blows out a breath, trying to ignore the acrid taste of remembered terror in the back of his throat, to force away the image of Hayato’s face, years from now and just weeks ago, twisted with grief—

— _you promised we’d see them together. It’s just a few more days until we relocate to Matera, you know how hard Giannini’s been working on the fireworks this year, c’mon boss—_

Tsuna cuts the memory off ruthlessly, but can’t quite stop the ache that spreads through his side, making his breath hitch. He ignores it as best he can, and keeps watching Hayato, trying to figure out how to break the silence between them.

“I don’t need subordinates, really,” he finally says, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

Hayato seems to wilt in the darkness and Tsuna bites his tongue, viciously, for speaking so carelessly. The other’s Hayato would have known what to do with those words, but that’s almost ten years of perspective and _dammit_ , Tsuna’s not _good_ at this! He just wants _Hayato_ back, even though he’s never had him. He wants his right hand, laughing and deadly and loyal, but he doesn’t know how to help the Hayato in front of him to _be_ that man.

“It’s not—” Tsuna shakes his head, trying to get the words to make sense in his head, to sound convincing. “It’s not like you think. I just… I could use a friend a lot more right now.”

There’s the startled hiss of an indrawn breath from Hayato, but Tsuna doesn’t dare look at him, to try to read Hayato’s expression.

If Hayato doesn’t want this, doesn’t want to stay, that’s _fine_ , he reminds himself. He’s certainly no great shakes as a boss. Wasn’t the first time around, definitely isn’t this time.

The silence stretches for what feels like eternity, before a hand settles on Tsuna’s shoulder, cool through the thin tee-shirt.

— _“Why are your hands always so_ cold _?” Tsuna asks, laughing a little, as he wraps his fingers around Hayato’s. The Vongola Gear chimes against other rings, and Hayato’s eyes are warm as he replies_ —

“No one ever said I was all that good as a friend,” Hayato says, and his voice is a little rough, and Tsuna thinks he’s wiping away tears with his other hand. “I can try though.”

Tsuna covers the hand on his shoulder with his own, and laughs a little. “I’m not good at much either, so I think trying’s going to be the best we can do.”

* * *

The next morning, Hayato wakes up (to an extremely annoying alarm) with a weird crick in his neck from dozing off sharing a bed with his Boss (platonically! Entirely platonically! There is no need to shoot him!).

The Tenth doesn’t seem to think that this is at all worthy of worrying about. Instead, he rolls out of bed, slams off his alarm, pulls on a school uniform and heads out the door, pausing momentarily at the top of the steps.

“Hayato,” he says, and hearing his _first name_ from the Tenth is like being punched in the gut, but the Tenth doesn’t seem to notice, “do you have a Namimori Middle uniform?”

He does, actually, and says as much. It was one of the distinctly bizarre things that Reborn told him to pack before calling him in.

“Good,” the Tenth said. “I hate to imagine trying to fit you into one of my uniforms. Get dressed, I’ll make breakfast. Mom’s probably still sleeping.”

Hayato follows orders, more than a little dazed, and finds himself sitting down to eat with his Boss. At least there’s a lot of _very_ black coffee, which means that Hayato can occupy himself with trying to drown in caffeine, and ignore the awkwardness of the last night, of being in a stranger’s house, of his Boss suddenly calling him by first name without so much as a _warning_ …

Honestly, it’s a wonder that he gets through breakfast without a heart attack, the amount of coffee he ends up drinking. The Tenth watches him with something that might be amusement, and pushes various leftovers and bits of toast on him in between cups.

What Hayato really wants is a cigarette, honestly, but if he has to deal with public school kids today, he should probably eat something so he doesn’t pass out in the middle of class.

He eats the damn food. It’s almost peaceful, honestly, which means he really should have been prepared for what happened as soon as both he and the Tenth were done.

“So,” the Tenth says, in that fake-casual way that always means something disastrous is about to said, “you should stay here until you have a permanent place.”

Hayato drops his plates in the sink and stares. “You cannot be fucking serious,” he says flatly.

The Tenth looks askance at him, raising an eyebrow in a silent _why not?_ as he continues to clean up from their breakfast.

“I can’t stay here! It’s not—” _appropriate_ , he wants to say, but given how the Tenth has just started to call him ‘Hayato’, he gets the feeling that won’t fly. “It’s not fair to your mother,” he finishes, a little lamely.

The Tenth sighs and continues clearing the table, sounding, somehow, both fond and exasperated. “Hayato, my mother would love for you to stay with us forever, if you’d let that happen. Unfortunately, I don’t think you’d be comfortable with that. So, please. It’s just until you find an apartment and get it livable.”

Hayato grabs the Tenth’s elbow as he turns away, frantic, desperate to make himself understood, to explain to the Vongola’s heir that no matter what might have happened last night, he really isn’t worth this, he doesn’t belong here. Not like this. Not even for such a short time.

There’s a sound of surprise, a feeling of muscles tensing under his fingers, and then he’s being slammed up against the kitchen wall, one of the Tenth’s hands on the wall by his ear, the other holding a (fortunately dull) table knife far too close for his left eye for comfort.

When he manages to focus beyond the stainless steel in front of his face, the expression on the Tenth’s face is terrifyingly blank. The lights are on, but there’s absolutely no one home.

Hayato doesn’t know what he did wrong, but he knows how to keep from making things worse, at least a little. Carefully, he leans back against the wall, tilting his head ever so slightly to bare his throat and averting his eyes as much as he can while keeping track of the Tenth’s expressions.

Without knowing _why_ he’s suddenly set the Tenth off, it’s hard to know how to defuse the situation. Hayato can manage being as non-threatening as possible though, at least until there’s someone back in control of the body in front of him.

There’s a short, breathless eternity as they stand there, and Hayato’s heartbeat is thundering in his ears, a familiar rhythm of _you fucked up, you fucked up_.

His self-recrimination is interrupted by a faint noise, and Hayato looks up just as the knife slips from suddenly lax fingers, falling to the ground with an incongruously musical chime. A moment later, the Tenth stumbles back, horror writ large across his face.

“Sorry,” he whispers, eyes wide and shocked at his own actions. “Sorry. I didn’t. I didn’t mean to do that.”

He keeps walking backwards, falling into one of the kitchen chairs in an inelegant tumble of limbs, burying his face in his hands, as his shoulders shake.

“Tenth…” Hayato says, not quite sure what to say.

The Tenth shudders, just slightly, before laughing, more than a little bitter and self-deprecating, and scrubbing his hands over his face before he manages to look up. He’s still a more than a little wild-eyed, and his hands tremble, ever so slightly as he lowers them into his lap.

“Hayato, please” He says shakily. “Don’t _call_ me that. It’s bad enough when Reborn starts talking about the Vongola, please don’t join in.”

Hayato blinks.

“What should I call you, though?” he asks, genuinely baffled. Pretty much every heir he’s ever met has gone by either number or Family name. It’s as close as mafia brats get to manners, most of the time.

The Tenth smiles, wry and crooked and humorless. “You could try my name,” he suggests, and even if he’s smiling, that’s not something he should be saying so _casually_. Not when Hayato just managed to fuck up _so badly_ that he nearly earned a knife through his face.

“I— _what_?” Hayato sputters, flailing ever so slightly. “I couldn’t—you’re my Boss, you’re _Vongola_ —”

“Hush,” the Tenth says, grabbing one of Hayato’s hands in a desperately tight grip. “I told you. I don’t need subordinates as much as I need friends. And I don’t think friends use friends’ titles, do you? Besides, if I’m using your first name, you should use mine.”

“I couldn’t do that! I mean, I mean—”

“ _Hayato_ ,” the Tenth says, and he’s still smiling, somehow, patient and maybe with a little laughter in his eyes now. “Call me Tsuna.”

He gives in.

“Tsuna,” he says, careful not to let his tongue, which still trips over Japanese sometimes, mistake the syllables.

The faint smile on his boss’s face makes his chest tighten almost-painfully. He’s never made someone look that fond or that proud before in his _life_.

“Good,” the Tenth— _Tsuna_ says. “Now come on. We’ve got to get to school or we’re in trouble.”

While Hayato’s still staring, more than a little bemused at the rollercoaster ride the morning has already been, Tsuna catches his wrist, grabs both of their backpacks with his other hand, and hauls him out the front door.

* * *

“We have a new transfer student,” the homeroom teacher says, and Hana perks up a little. New students mean new people to take apart, and maybe someone new for Sawada to react weirdly to. This could help her crack his brain open.

The kid who walks in when the teacher opens the door though, looks like a complete delinquent. Silver hair, what the hell? And the jewelry, unbuttoned shirt, and irritated expression on his face aren’t doing him any favors either.

“This is Gokudera Hayato,” the teacher says. “He’s been studying overseas in Italy until recently. Please make him feel welcome.”

The new kid just looks at them all like they’re not worth his time, and stalks down the aisle of desks to one of the desks right by Sawada, who has spent the beginning of homeroom paying attention only in the vaguest, most absent way. Hana would wonder if he’s even aware of what’s going on, but since whatever happened that made Sawada a real person, he’s been almost supernaturally attuned to whatever’s going on at Namimori Middle.

Gokudera scowls, a single dark look at the kid sitting at the desk he’s apparently decided he wanted. In response, Kusonoki, who Hana never pegged as easily cowed, about falls out of his seat to vacate it. That done, the newest weirdo in Hana’s class full of weirdos sits down, perfectly calm and controlled, at the desk immediately to Sawada’s right, and makes himself at home.

Sawada, who tuned in sometime in the last ten seconds, while she wasn’t paying attention, is _smiling_ , the utter freak, like he _expected_ this, like it makes him _happy_. Sure, Hana gets it, hostile strangers going out of their way to be close to her is _just fine_ for her too! This isn’t stalker-like behavior at all! In no way is this a cause for concern!

She’d be making plans to beat an explanation out of Sawada if she wasn’t absolutely certain he’d smile and somehow make her forget what she wanted to get out of him. Hana hasn’t forgotten that she still doesn’t know exactly why Sawada dislikes his father so much.

* * *

He’s been walking Tsuna to school for a week when it happens. They’ve barely entered school grounds when the fucking _freak_ who runs the school disciplinary committee is there, swinging at Tsuna’s _face_.

Hayato has his dynamite in hand and ready to light almost instantly, and he’s just waiting for the right moment to open up, so he can blow this _asshole_ right home to God for touching his Boss. _No one_ hurts Tsuna on Hayato’s watch.

“ _Hold_ ,” Tsuna snaps, and the word, the _order_ , freezes Hayato, like his joint have locked in place without the slightest bit of input from his brain. He’s heard that order before, that word, that tone, but no one’s ever said it like that, like there’s no other option than to hold his fire. Most of the time it just made him want to start flinging explosives around everywhere, and especially at the boss of the month who’d called it out.

Then again, Hayato _likes_ this new boss of his. He hadn’t expected to, when Reborn called him in to play subordinate to the Vongola heir. He’d expected another one of the sneering, swaggering rich boys he’s seen so many times while bouncing between Families.

But the Tenth, _Tsuna_ isn’t like that.

A split second more, and Tsuna has thrown himself into a backwards roll, easily moving himself out of his opponent’s range, coming back to his feet just to Hayato’s left.

“Sorry, Hibari-san,” he says as he dusts himself off. “I forgot to warn Hayato about a few things. Do you mind if we continue this during lunch?”

The only response is a disdainful sniff, and then Hibari is turning his back on them, tonfas somehow managing to vanish up his sleeves. His attitude makes Hayato kind of want to ram a stick of dynamite between the asshole’s teeth, but he gets the feeling that Tsuna would disapprove, and Hayato is kind of weak to Tsuna’s disapproval.

Tsuna sighs as Hibari leaves them behind, and shakes his head.

“Mi dispiace, Hayato. I should have mentioned Kyouya to you before. I’m not at my best right now.”

Hayato blinks. Most people he’s known wouldn’t have bothered to apologize, just would have explained and expected him to remember it in the future.

Yet more proof that Tsuna’s never really spent any time in the mafia, and _God_ , but Hayato’s thankful for it.

“It’s fine. Just. What _was_ that?” Hayato asks, because he knows grudges and he knows childhood friends who can’t go a day without beating on each other, and that wasn’t _either_ , or anything else he’s seen, and he’s seen a lot. “Why do you have to continue during lunch? What’s his whole _deal_?”

Tsuna smiles, quick and almost mischievous, before he flicks a speaking glance over the crowds of schoolchildren around them.

“Non adesso,” he murmurs, and Hayato closes his mouth on his questions, his curiosity easing, a little, at the sound of familiar words. Tsuna’s right. If he doesn’t want the conversation overheard, the hallway isn’t the best place, whether they’re speaking Japanese or Italian. After all, even if their classmates can’t _understand_ them speaking Italian, it will certainly draw attention that they can’t really afford right now. Everyone saw the _thing_ with Hibari, even if it’s not what they’re gossiping about right now. Add in the two of them speaking Italian together as they wander the halls, and it’s going to become more of a mess that Hayato thinks Tsuna wants, given how hard Tsuna tries to fly under the radar.

Still, it’s always interesting to hear Tsuna speak Italian, even just in passing. Sometimes it’s unaccented, graceful as if he was born speaking the language. At other times, he stumbles over the words, accent thick. He’s never lost for the meaning, or the words he wants, like someone who lacks fluency. Instead, it’s as though the shape of the words isn’t quite familiar in his mouth, and he struggles to form what he wants to say.

Hayato understands, because he has the same problems with Japanese, though he lacks some of the fluency Tsuna demonstrates in Italian.

It’s comforting, though, to hear and speak Italian instead of the sharp-edged Japanese that his mother never quite managed to teach him, and which Hayato knows he still speaks with the faintest edge of a foreigner's accent.

He’d like to know exactly _how_ Tsuna learned Italian, just because he loves to know things, but he gets the feeling it’s more than a little personal. Tsuna mostly just uses it when it’s something that _has_ to be private, between the two of them, but sometimes it crops up at other times, when he’s distracted or worried.

...which he clearly is right now. Which leaves Hayato to deal with the rest of the world, while his Boss deals with whatever he needs to deal with in his head. Unfortunately, that means he needs to actually start paying attention to the kids around them, instead of ignoring them and their petty drama as best he can.

 _Great_. Still, Hayato swore to serve, even if he never really told Tsuna. Tsuna seems to take it as written anyway, so it’s not like it matters.

Looking over the crowds in the hallway points out to Hayato that his Boss moves with a kind of economy of motion that no one else in his school seems to have. Given that apparently Tsuna has some sort of arrangement to fight or get beat up or something, by the head of the school disciplinary committee, that makes a bit of sense.

The thing is though, there’s something else underlying it all. Hayato had missed it before, but now that he’s decided to pay attention, it’s more than a little weird. He already knew that Tsuna wasn’t particularly popular among the students at Namimori Middle—he’s not _completely_ socially incompetent—but he hadn’t realized how complex that lack of popularity was.

Hayato’s spent time in mafia schools, where this would be a lot more overt, but the patterns are still the same. People can’t seem to stop glaring at Tsuna, or looking right past him, which puts him squarely at the bottom of the social ladder. The thing that makes it complicated though, is that absolutely _no one_ hassles Tsuna, which, if this was a normal situation, they probably wouldn’t be able to resist doing.

(Hayato’s been on the bottom of the ladder in a mafia school before, and if his scars are mostly faded, that doesn’t mean they’re gone. If he fought his way up from below rock bottom, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t remember what it was like.)

So, Tsuna’s not well liked, but he’s also not hassled. Which means people are also _afraid_ of him, since they clearly don’t know anything about his family connections.

Hayato doesn’t think that most of the kids have realized that they clear right out of Tsuna’s path the instant he starts moving, and it’s a little bit funny, now that he notices. Some of the upperclassmen scowl at Tsuna every second he’s in sight, but the instant he’s headed for them, they move, almost subconsciously, out of his way.

Not everyone scowls though. There’s Kurokawa and Sasagawa, of course, who smile and watch Tsuna with concern, his only other friends. But there are others, like the head of the boxing club, and one of the baseball players, as well as a scattered few utterly ordinary students, whose eyes track Tsuna like sunflowers follow the sun.

Hayato sympathizes, but it also makes the back of his neck itch. None of them have been vetted, as far as he knows. They could very well be assassins, and Hayato isn’t enough to protect Tsuna. He’ll do his best, but, well. He’s really not worthy of the trust Reborn and Tsuna have placed in him.

He doesn’t glare them off, not yet, but he makes careful mental notes on all of them. Reborn said he was guarding Tsuna, but it’s not good form to start brawls for no reason on school grounds.

No matter what sort of example the head of the Disciplinary Committee is setting.

It’s an easy enough walk to the classroom, with no one willing to linger long in Tsuna’s way. Hayato is honestly not sure if he thinks it’s funny that no one is willing to linger in his Boss’s way for long, even if they don’t like him, or if he’s about to start working himself into a truly _epic_ temper about how Tsuna’s being treated.

Before he can decide, they’re in the classroom, and Tsuna raises an eyebrow that has Hayato sitting at his desk before he can even process the expression.

“So, Hibari,” he says, in deliberate Italian, like all of his private conversations with Hayato. “We have...something of a friendship, I suppose?”

“Looked a bit violent for that,” Hayato comments, cautiously, and is rewarded when Tsuna laughs quietly.

“I guess,” he says. “But he’s always like that, and I do try to take care of my people.”

The statement hits Hayato like a punch to the gut.

Of course Tsuna has people. There’s no way that the Vongola heir wouldn’t—he’s heard stories about the Family. How their heirs take over the family already surrounded by the people who will form their inner circle. The insularity of the upper echelons, how unusual it is for new people to reach those rarified heights.

How fucking stupid does he have to be, to think he’s ever going to be anything to someone like that?

“I see,” Hayato says, and he tries to keep his voice even, but he knows, from the hard edge to the words, from the way his knuckles are turning white as he clenches his fists in his lap, that he doesn’t succeed.

“What—?” Tsuna says, blinking in confusion for a moment, before it’s replaced with fond exasperation. “Oh for the love of... _Hayato_. You’re one of my people too.”

This time Hayato is the one confused, staring at Tsuna. Because, what? He _can’t_ have just said that, can he? No one wants Hayato as one of their people. He might be an idiot and fuck up all over the place, but he’s smart enough to have figured _that_ out at least.

“You belong here,” Tsuna says, with a kind of surety that makes it hard for Hayato to breathe. _You’re mine_ , those words say, and _damn_ , but Hayato’s heard bosses three times Tsuna’s age say things like that without a tenth of the conviction. What the _hell_ , why does someone like the _next Vongola Boss_ want a screw-up like him? That’s like…

He can’t think of anything that compares with how ridiculous that thought is, it’s so fucking out there.

Tsuna raps Hayato’s desk with one knuckle, a little meditative, and the sounds draws Hayato’s wandering attention back.

“You are...my right arm,” Tsuna says, as though he’s thinking the sentences through as he says them. “It’s your job to see me, and to advise me.” A quick smile. “I can get a little ahead of myself sometimes.”

Hayato just sits and stares, and tries to listen to his Boss past the roaring in his ears, triggered by the fact that the Tenth just called Hayato his _right hand_ , like it wasn’t _anything_. Casual as talking about the weather.

“Kyouya,” Tsuna continues, and Hayato drags his attention back to the conversation, “is never going to have a job like that.”

Yeah, Hayato gets that. He kind of thinks that Hibari Kyouya might have something with a lot of steel and teeth in it to say about having that kind of responsibility to an organization.

Tsuna stares off into the distance for a moment, thinking.

“Kyouya will always do best as a free agent. The most he wants from anyone or anything is a patch of territory to curl up in at the end of a long day. He has a good lone wolf act going but, honestly, that man…” Tsuna’s voice trails off, and the faint smile turns indescribably fond. There’s a beat of silence, before Tsuna blinks and shakes his head. “Never mind. I’m sorry, I probably don’t make any sense,”

He rubs his eyes, and for the first time Hayato notices just how dark the circles under his Boss’s eyes are. “I haven’t been sleeping enough lately, and it makes me ramble.”

* * *

Later that day, Tsuna stares at the volleyball net set up in the gym for a moment before closing his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose and shaking his head.

When he opens his eyes he stares at the volleyball net for a second longer, before he sighs explosively and says, “You know what, this is _pointless_.”

Hayato blinks, and looks at his boss, who’s frowning, irritated and still exhausted, despite all of Hayato’s best efforts, and then at the gym, which seems to be set up for volleyball, of all things. He kind of agrees with Tsuna’s comment. He’s not sure exactly what they’re doing here, to be honest.

Blowing out a tired sigh, Tsuna turns around, and walks back through the locker room, pulling back on his regular school uniform. Hayato follows, more than slightly bewildered, but also very willing to miss a gym class. He’s aware that the little fuckers he goes to school with now aren’t allowed to throw knives, pull out garrotes or draw pistols during classes, but that doesn’t stop him from _expecting_ it.

Mafia schooling might not have been his first experience with organized classes, but it was certainly the one that left the deepest marks. He rubs his thumb over the scars that cut a neat line across the insides of the fingers of his right hand. Garrotes are a fucked up weapon to give a kid with impulse control that poor, no matter how large his Family.

“What are we doing, Boss?” he asks, after they’re both in normal uniforms and slipping out of the locker room, headed towards the depths of the school building.

“I’m talking to Kyouya because I really don’t want to be taking _gym classes_ for the rest of my time here.”

Hayato blinks. “And he can...get you out of those classes?”

Tsuna waves a hand airily, as if this is a matter of no great importance. “It’s kind of more like he can intimidate the teachers out of marking me absent? As long as I keep him relatively entertained, he probably won’t mind.”

“And how exactly are you going to entertain him?” Hayato finds himself asking, almost against his will. He doesn’t want to be in the class any more than his boss does. Unfortunately, one thing he’s starting to learn is that some of the most horrifying things can come out of Tsuna’s mouth when he gets the bit between his teeth.

For example, calling Reborn a meddler, _right in front of the hitman_.

If it weren’t for the fact that he got away with it, Hayato would say that proved Tsuna had defective self-preservation instincts. As it is, he just wonders how the Vongola heir has survived to be thirteen.

Right now he’s going with Tsuna having the favor of some deity.

Tsuna snorts. “Hayato, this is _Hibari Kyouya_ I’m bribing. How do you _think_ I’m going to entertain him?”

With that, Tsuna opens a nondescript door, and strides into a room Hayato’s never been in before.

There’s a dark-haired upperclassman with a pompadour sitting at a desk almost immediately inside the door. Hayato’s immediate reaction is _what the actual fuck_ , because who wears that sort of hairstyle these days?

This guy, apparently.

“Kusakabe-san.” Tsuna says, as though he doesn’t see anything wrong with it, “is Hibari-san in?”

Kusakabe frowns a little at them, before nodding slowly. “He’s sleeping on the couch. Aren’t you both supposed to be in class?”

Tsuna shrugs, spreading his hands. “That’s kind of what we’re here about. Can you wake him up without us, or should we just take our chances?”

A long pause, as Kusakabe looks them over.

Eventually the boy sighs, and stands up. “I’ll wake him up. You look like you want something, and it’ll be easier for you to get it if he isn’t already trying to kill you.”

There’s a soft sound that might be a laugh from Tsuna, as he nods slightly, acknowledging the point.

“Thank you, Kusakabe-san,” he says.

Kusakabe just sighs, sounding long-suffering, and walks back into the shadowed back of the room.

There’s a moment or two of soft murmuring, followed by a snarl and the sound of something crashing to the floor. A moment later, the head of the disciplinary committee stalks out to meet them, his expression saying that they’d better have a good reason for disturbing his rest.

Tsuna takes a breath, and then makes his offer. “Hibari-san, if you’ll arrange it so that Hayato and I don’t have to attend gym class, I’ll spar with you during that period instead, two days a week.”

Hibari, blinks for a moment, looking a little bleary from being so suddenly awakened before he turns a vicious glare on Tsuna.

“Six days a week,” he demands. Hayato almost reaches for the dynamite in his pockets. Who does this guy think he is, bargaining with the Tenth?

Tsuna gives him the faintest of headshakes, and smiles ever so slightly. Hayato eases back, lets go of his weapons. His boss has it handled, it looks like.

“Three,” Tsuna bargains, “I need the time to heal, Hibari-san. Otherwise I’m not going to be able to move at the end of the week.”

Hibari gives Tsuna dark look, before snapping out, “Four,” crossing his arms, as if to indicate just how unwilling he is to be moved.

Tsuna just smiles in response. “Deal. Four days a week, during my gym period, I’ll come play with you. Shall we start today?”

In response, Hibari whirls into attacking Tsuna.

With a sound that could be either dismay or adrenaline-fueled delight, Tsuna leaps back, out of range, and then whirls into a run, Hibari hard on his heels.

Hayato stares after them, and fights the urge to light up a cigarette right then and there.

This job is going to be so bad for his habit, he realizes, before sighing and tucking his hands into his pockets. Given the fading bruises he’s seen on Tsuna, and how long the fighting is going to go on, he’d better go swing by the nurse’s office and start laying in some supplies.

At least he’s getting to practice his first aid. Shamal always did tell him he was terrible at it.

 _God_ , he needs a cigarette.

* * *

It’s easy after that. Stupidly violent, but easy. Tsuna takes four days a week to get the stuffing beaten out of him for about an hour, and in return, there are three whole days a week that Kyouya isn’t hassling him, one of which includes a full free period.

If Tsuna often uses that spare time to sleep on the Reception Room couches, at least no one seems to be offended. Kyouya glares sometimes, but if he really objected, Tsuna would have been chased off the couch before he could begin an apology. And Hayato seems to relish the opportunity to talk with Tetsuya about God only knows what while Tsuna’s napping.

He’d be afraid of the alliance he’s created if he didn’t know it had happened before and hadn’t damaged the universe too terribly.

Then again, Tetsuya and Hayato were both adults by that point. Maybe he should worry.

He goes back to sleep instead.

Everything’s fine, except for the bruises and Reborn’s ominous absence from overtly influencing his life for almost two weeks. Tsuna worries about that. When Reborn isn’t messing with him, the hitman’s either putting something truly incredible and torturous for the purposes of furthering Tsuna’s education, or he’s in the middle of planning something violent for the good of the family and is going to stick Tsuna with the bill.

In general, it’s good to keep an eye on Reborn.

This means that he’s looking in entirely the wrong direction when the steady schedule of tedium and violence is broken in the middle of lunch on a Wednesday.

It’s a completely ordinary day, with Hana sniping at Hayato, who is seething in response, while Kyoko stirs the pot and smiles like an angel. Tsuna is left with the incredibly undesirable job of keeping the tension from erupting into actual violence, which he really wishes wasn’t his job. Honestly, he’s supremely unsuited to walking a conversational tightrope this fine. He used to have people for that.

Still, it’s nice, in that “my Family is a mess” way that he sometimes finds himself missing. It’s a good time, even if the chance of sudden explosions is several times higher than the national average.

Mostly that’s Hana and Hayato’s faults, but the arguing is generally more than entertaining enough to incline Tsuna to put up with the chance of scorching.

“You’re such a _monkey_!” Hana snarls, and Tsuna tries to hide his laughter, because seeing calm, unflappable, deeply sarcastic Hana lose her cool is always a treat.

“And you’re fucking _wrong_ ,” Hayato snaps back, which is all the signal Tsuna needs to lean back in his chair before Hana goes flying over his desk to put his right hand man into a headlock she probably learned from Kyoko. Who would have, of course, learned it from Ryohei.

 _It’s good to see the Family getting along_ , he thinks, as he catches Kyoko’s eye, and they both dissolve into helpless laughter.

It’s a good day.

And then the classroom door slams open, and someone shouts “Yamamoto’s going to jump off the roof!”

Tsuna’s blood goes cold, so cold it’s burning like the heart of his Will. He doesn’t hear the rest of what the other student says. He doesn’t have to. He knows what happened, and it feels like having a bucket of ice water dumped over him.

 _Stupid, so stupid._ Unforgivably _stupid._ He missed it, somehow. Maybe he was sleeping off a spar in the reception room, maybe he was doing his homework on the roof. Maybe he was just plain busy with Hayato.

The _why_ doesn’t matter. He wasn’t _paying attention_ , that’s the criminal part. He missed his chance to change Takeshi’s path. He _forgot how it happened_.

Standing, barely aware of his body, Tsuna turns to make his way to the roof, his ears roaring.

He _will_ stop this _idiocy_ , though. It might terrify Takeshi into never associating with him, but Tsuna is willing to take that risk, just for the chance to grab Takeshi by the scruff of the neck and _shake_.

His Guardian does not have, has not had, and _will not ever have_ his permission to die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Italian should be underlined and have hovertext translations! Technically, it doesn't need to have the underline, but I figured otherwise no one would hover over it lmao.
> 
> Comments and kudos are, as always, appreciated! On tumblr I'm now [aroacereydameron](http://www.aroacereydameron.tumblr.com) because I'm huge Star Wars trash, and you can yell at me there to keep writing chapter ten. Or just watch how much I complain. Whatever floats your boat!


	10. no sign from above

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The roof is loud with people, but Takeshi can’t help but think of it as background noise, like for a movie. It’s just meaningless sound, to keep the silence away, like the white noise his dad puts on at night to help him sleep. No one’s actually saying anything important back there, and none of it sounds real. Just the same platitudes over and over, fake as a movie script._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [creeps out of hiding] um. been a while, huh?
> 
> Thanks, as always, to my beta squad: [Bee](http://babybirdblues.tumblr.com), [Blythe](http://eeddis.tumblr.com), Ilse and [Crissy](http://tothatfuturesky.tumblr.com). They have put up with so much shit from me, especially given the long update time, and they still read my chapters multiple times when I ask them to.

Reborn watches the scene on the roof. The boy on the edge is a natural hitman, that much is clear to see in the easy carelessness of his grin, the shallowness of the expressions he wears.

Reborn has seen it too many times to count. Natural killers, the rare few with that critical slipped cog, all have the same problem as children, sometimes even as adults. They don’t _understand_ people quite right. It leaves them oddly flat, in a way Reborn can’t help but notice. They have only one smile, one laugh, and they display it as indiscriminately as infants.

This particular baby hitman must have had good role models--most don’t manage to pretend to be normal this well. Even unobservant civilians can usually pick up something ever so slightly uncanny about hitmen in their midst. But this boy, Yamamoto--by the sound of what his classmates are shouting--is well-liked, popular even.

It bears noting that the people of Namimori are distinctly strange in their own right, and this could be part of _why_ this Yamamoto is so popular.

If he weren’t too busy redoing all of his reconnaissance, he’d be pushing Sawada into recruiting the boy. A natural hitman is always useful to have at hand, and Sawada’s reign is likely to be more tumultuous than most.

Reborn watches the boy, and the boy watches the drop, and Reborn wonders if it’s worth getting Sawada up here anyway, to steal this hitman-child who has nothing left. Even if the boy won’t be a Guardian, debt can be a powerful motivator.

It’s difficult to tell, just now, if dealing with this suicidal youngster would be a good idea for Tsunayoshi, or if it would be terrible beyond imagination. Given the way that Tsunayoshi nearly murdered his once-and-future right hand earlier, the chances for the latter are higher than Reborn would like.

And then, like an answer to his thoughts, there is a startled murmuring in the crowd. Reborn turns to look, and there, cutting through the shouting crowd like a shark through a school of fish, is Reborn’s charge. Every muscle is taut, and the way Tsunayoshi carries himself, chin high and shoulders tight, says that the boy is utterly furious. His fists are clenched, as though he’s only waiting for an excuse to start swinging.

Which, Reborn thinks, as another middle-schooler starts and stumbles out of Sawada’s path, frightened, is not unlikely. As haunted as the boy is, he has to be _itching_ for something concrete and mindless to take his fear out on. Middle-schoolers would make easy targets.

He makes a mental note to have some good cleaners and medics on call--Shamal, for one, might be a good idea. It wouldn’t do for Sawada to rack up a murder charge or a debilitating injury so early in his training.

It barely takes five seconds of contemplation, figuring out how to get into contact with Shamal. And yet, when Reborn looks back up at his charge, Tsunayoshi is in full snarl, his hand wrapped with bruising force around the wrist of the boy on the edge.

Barely a minute later, the boy follows Sawada back from the edge, as though he’d never thought of leaping off.

* * *

 The roof is loud with people, but Takeshi can’t help but think of it as background noise, like for a movie. It’s just meaningless sound, to keep the silence away, like the white noise his dad puts on at night to help him sleep. No one’s actually saying anything important back there, and none of it sounds _real_. Just the same platitudes over and over, fake as a movie script.

The students behind him want him to stop, to step back from the edge, but there’s _no reason to._ Takeshi is only good at one thing, is only known for one thing, here at Namimori Middle, and that one thing has never brought him anyone or anything worth sticking around for. He loves baseball, and the camaraderie of the team, and the focus of the game, but he’s gruesomely aware that middle school baseball is not all there is. It’s not real, for all that it’s a convenient way to hide from reality.

And now, he can’t play. He’s been lagging and now he’s been left behind, suddenly. There’s just no point _._ The game’s the thing, and with a broken arm--well, it might heal well enough for him to pitch just as well as before. But then again, it might not, and Takeshi will no longer be able to do the _one thing_ that he’s good at. No one will ever look at him and see even the fraction of his existence that baseball makes up.

The chance is there, and Takeshi’s never had a good record with chance and hospitals. Not since he was a baby.

What a depressing thought. He looks down, instead of continuing with it, and can’t help but start grinning.

Someone calls out, “This isn’t funny!” and Takeshi wants to drag them to the edge with him, show them the drop, show them that this isn’t just _funny_ , this is _hilarious._  Because Takeshi is finally doing something real, and the paper cutouts all around him can’t do anything but shriek about how he’s suddenly serious.

(Shriek and stand still, like there are staples through their feet.)

“You’re taking this too far!” another one of the cutout crowd calls to him, and Takeshi really does laugh at that.

“Sorry,” he says, never looking away from the drop off the edge of the roof, “but that’s not true. Now that I can’t play, I have nothing left.”

He kicks a foot against the edge of the building, and considers what falling would be like. Peaceful, probably. Maybe he’ll finally know what flying feels like, for birds. That could be fun. A good last memory, he thinks.

Just as he’s about to take the step, a hand with a grip like a steel trap closes around Takeshi’s wrist, and he can’t help turning, surprised.

The first thing he notices about the one holding him back is a pair of eyes like an inferno.

Suddenly he’s face to face with a _person_ not a paper cutout, and the amount of color, of _intensity_ , is almost frightening. He can feel the hand on his skin, almost fever-hot: like a brand wrapping around his wrist. He’s frozen, faced with something real, for the first time in a very long while.

Sawada Tsunayoshi lifts his chin, imperial, commanding, and tells him, “ _No._ ”

“What?” Takeshi says, and he can feel his polite, awful smile working its way onto his face to hide his incomprehension. Sawada’s been weird lately, interesting and alive and _focused_ , his attention curling in around the new transfer and a few others, clannish and insular and fierce. Still, this is something Takeshi never saw in him before, even with how real he’s suddenly become.

“I said no,” Sawada repeats, and those hot-bright eyes don’t waver, even as his hand tightens like a vice around Takeshi’s wrist. “You’re worth more than baseball averages and childish popularity contests, Yamamoto Takeshi. I refuse to lose you to them.”

The words wash over him, and Takeshi can’t find it in himself to look away as they echo through his head. They should sound arrogant, should sound pretentious, but they just sound _old._ Takeshi almost thinks Sawada wanted to say ‘meant for’ instead of ‘worth’. Like he knows something about the future Takeshi doesn’t.

Takeshi has always expected baseball to be the thing that carries him to the top, that keeps him going. He expected it to be the thing he played his whole life. With Sawada looking at him, looking _through_ him, eyes full of copper-orange challenge, Takeshi thinks that whatever game Sawada sees for him might just be _better_. Might be more.

When Sawada offers him a hand climbing back over the fence, a moment later, it doesn’t even occur to Takeshi not to take it.

* * *

Tsuna doesn’t let go of Takeshi, once the boy is over the fence. There’s a moment where his Rain opens his mouth to comment or protest, but Tsuna cuts him off with a yank on his arm, hauling his _idiot_ off the roof.

A jerk of his head as he storms through the doors to the stairwell has Hayato going ahead of him, clearing the way as he heads for the Reception Room. Kyouya is just going to have to deal with Tsuna taking over some of his space for a little while, because the Reception Room is about the only place Tsuna can think of on school grounds that he can have some privacy.

He has a Rain Guardian to chew out, and he’s not doing it in public.

Takeshi makes some attempt to speak while Tsuna’s stalking through the halls, hauling him by the wrist, but Tsuna doesn’t have the patience to listen to excuses right now. After the second time Takeshi starts laughing nervously, Tsuna just turns and snaps a vicious “ _Stai zitto _ ” at his Guardian, which shuts him up but good.

Without the distraction, the rest of the trip is quick and quiet, right up until the moment Tsuna slams the Reception Room door open, too angry to worry about whether or not the room is occupied.

Fortunately for him it isn’t.

Pulling Takeshi after him into the room, Tsuna turns to look at Hayato.

There’s a second of struggling with himself about what to ask of Hayato, but Hayato doesn’t even blink, settling himself in as a sentry and closing the door behind Tsuna and Takeshi with a quiet _click_.

Tsuna sometimes wonders what he did to deserve such a good right hand man.

Then he turns to Takeshi, and such abstract thoughts go out of his head instantly.

“ _Sit_ ,” he snaps at his Rain, suddenly furious once more. Of all the _damn fool_ things he forgot about being a child again, this has to be the worst. _A fractured arm_. As if any lingering issues from the injury would last past the first second Shamal got a look at him, or Ryohei learned to heal.

Takeshi sits, eyes wide with something that Tsuna can’t quite parse.

It doesn’t matter.

“Just what did you think you were _doing_ ?” he asks, but right now, Tsuna doesn’t need an answer. He needs Takeshi to realize, not to speak.

“Middle school _baseball_ ,” he spits. “Important to you, maybe, but not more so than your life, than your father, than what your future holds--”

Takeshi’s expression shifts, his pale eyes turning wild. “What would you know about the future, _Dame-Tsuna_?” he asks, defensive. “No one cares if you fail! No one is depending on you for anything!”

The breath leaves Tsuna’s body like it’s been punched out of him, and he doesn’t know what expression takes over his face, but it’s enough to scare Takeshi still.

“I have failed,” he says, voice distant and eerie even to himself, “a great many more people than you could imagine. I did not let that failure get in the way of _doing something to fix it,_  Yamamoto Takeshi. You just chose to stop trying, and to ignore what it would do to the people around you.”

Takeshi is still staring, like the words haven’t penetrated.

Well that’s fine. Tsuna’s angry enough to be cruel.

“Your _father_ ,” he says, and it feels like his blood is igniting, like the liquid fire of his Dying Will is at his fingertips. “What would it do to him, to lose the son his wife died for?”

The words visibly rock Takeshi back, like a slap across the face, and Tsuna has a split second to think he’s gone too far, been too cruel.

“He would have moved on,” Takeshi tries to argue, but he doesn’t even sound like he convinces himself. “Eventually.”

“No,” Tsuna says, thinking of Tsuyoshi’s grim eyes and white knuckles. “He wouldn’t have. And he shouldn’t have to try because you’re an _idiot_. It’s a damned _stress fracture_ , you’ll be fine in two months. How do you not know how to step up your training safely you--”

* * *

Takeshi stares. He really should be listening, trying to actually refute Sawada’s points, to defend himself, but the staring takes priority, because he’s never seen _anything_ like this before. Sawada is veering wildly between furious and tired, utter rage and quiet sadness, and it’s all so _bright_. Sawada has a thousand colors and more expressions than Takeshi can count, shifting second by second, and Takeshi can’t help but wonder if this is what normal people see every time they encounter another human, because if it is, a lot of things he’s heard and read and seen suddenly make more sense.

(He’s always had trouble understanding why anyone respects a bunch of paper cutouts, but if everyone else sees _every_ human as this complex and colorful and _fascinating_ , a lot of the things he’s ignored in favor of smiling become a lot more important. This kind of brilliance would make it worthwhile to play harder, and smile a bit less.)

“What possessed you to think that ending your own life was okay?” Sawada asks, voice full of anger as a cover for terrible sadness, and Takeshi can’t help but think that he must be on the verge of bursting into flame, like he’s some sort of spirit and not human at all. “You know you have no right to do that! Your life belongs--”

“Tsuna,” a squeaky voice says, somehow cutting right through Sawada’s tirade, and a baby in a black suit hops onto the couch beside Takeshi.

Sawada blinks at the new arrival, and his mouth clicks shut. His jaw works for a moment, as if he wants to argue, before a deep scarlet flush spreads across his cheeks. Slowly, as though forcing himself to move, he steps back from Takeshi, shaking his head slightly, like he’s trying to get rid of a thought.

“My apologies,” Sawada says finally, still red, but calmer and weirdly, distantly formal all of the sudden. “I...have been quite unfair to you. You didn’t deserve everything I said to you.”

He bows slightly, and then turns sharply on one heel and walks out of the room without another word, not even waiting for a response. Through the open door, Takeshi can see Gokudera leaving his lookout position to follow at Sawada’s right shoulder. Sawada doesn’t even have to look at him. It’s like they know each other,

The door clicks shut, and Takeshi fights down a shudder, feeling as though he’s somehow been caught in a winter gust. It doesn’t make any sense though.  The reception room is a perfectly inoffensive temperature, neither too hot nor too cold. He has no reason to shiver.

(It makes no sense that the loss of Sawada’s attention feels like a sunny sky vanishing behind storm-dark clouds, like stepping from the bone-deep warmth of summer into the darkest night of winter, with a blizzard rising.)

The baby clears his throat, loudly, and Takeshi blinks, returning his attention to the room. He has to fight down a laugh as the sheer absurdity of his situation sinks in. Rather than try to make sense of it--Takeshi knows his weaknesses and facing reality is one of them--he just accepts it. He pushes down the bubbling hysteria, and turns to the snappily-dressed baby. He finds a pair of black, button-like eyes staring back at him with perfect equanimity.

For looking about five years old, and wearing a giant yellow pacifier around his neck, the baby’s pretty intimidating. The cool, dismissive once-over Takeshi gets from those black eyes makes something in the back of his brain raise its hackles and bare its teeth.

Takeshi likes the baby already, because Takeshi always likes people who make the thing in the back of his brain react. There aren’t many of them, which makes the experience even better when it does happen. For the first fourteen years of Takeshi’s life, it was only his father, Hibari Kyouya and a few shady customers, and it’s happened more in the last few weeks than ever before.

Possibly, this explains his new fascination with Sawada and Gokudera and how they seem to fit together like pieces of the same puzzle, separated for years but still clicking without a rough edge to speak of.

(Like the daisho his father pretends he doesn’t have in his closet, and Takeshi pretends he hasn’t seen. Two parts of a whole, two lengths of razor steel in pristine black sheaths.)

“My name is Reborn,” the kid says. “I’m the world’s greatest hitman. And you,” a pause, a sweep of button-black eyes, “are a problem.”

Takeshi isn’t exactly sure how to react to that. People don’t generally call him a problem, or anything like that. Usually, they like him pretty well.

“I’m sorry?” he says, because an apology seems like the right response in this situation. He could be wrong. It’s been awhile since he’s been this out of his depth with other people.

“Apologizing isn’t going to stop you from being a problem,” the baby says, though he sounds like in a different situation he might be amused. “Fix yourself. Tsunayoshi might have been overwrought, but he wasn’t entirely wrong. Middle school baseball and a broken arm aren’t things worth killing yourself for.”

Takeshi would disagree, but he’s distracted by two things.

The baby calls Sawada _Tsunayoshi_ , and the name should sound odd, too grandiose, like it usually does when people use Sawada’s full name. Instead, it fits with Sawada’s fierce eyes, with how dangerously protective he was of Takeshi’s life, when Takeshi couldn’t find any way to value it.

Secondly, there’s an implication in the baby’s words that there _are_ things worth killing yourself for, which Takeshi has never heard before. Everyone always says suicide is never the answer, which means any reason is as good as any other. But the way that the baby puts it--that’s interesting. It makes him a bit curious about what kinds of things he’s thinking of, though, which could be dangerous, if Sawada takes offense again.

The baby smirks. “Well then,” he says, like he’s heard Takeshi’s thoughts, or seen something in his face that Takeshi didn’t know he was showing. “You just might do after all. I’ll keep the school from calling your father,” the kid says, “provided you speak to him yourself, soon.”

Takeshi raises his eyebrows at that, and the baby just raises one back, before hopping off the couch and proceeding out of the room himself, leaving Takeshi all alone in the dim room, with its comfortable couch.

He stares at his cast, and remembers the contrast of just minutes earlier--the yelping and stillness of so many students, the heat of Sawada’s hand around his wrist and the quiet of his voice.

So many people who said they know him, calling--only _calling_ \--for him to come back over the fence. The furious expression on Sawada’s face, as he reamed Takeshi out for thinking his actions were acceptable.

* * *

Reborn had doubted Tsunayoshi’s story even as it was told. He doesn’t doubt that _something_ happened to the boy, but time travel?

Impossible. He’d run the math more than a dozen times in the last weeks alone, and it’s not possible. The energy requirements to fold dimensions alone, to bend space and time until they screamed--there’s no way to do it, not by any metric.

But what Sawada said in the Reception Room, the way he held himself, his terror-born fury--that wasn’t just a child who had been damaged or neglected into early adulthood, wasn’t just prescience, of the sort Aria relies on.

That was an adult, trapped in a child’s body. Reborn is intimately familiar with the way that looks, from both the outside and the inside.

In that instant, furious and possessive and snapping off orders without a doubt they would be obeyed, Tsunayoshi Sawada was every inch a Vongola Boss whose people had been threatened.

Reborn’s seen three generations of the Family, and they all have that way about them, touchy and prideful and snarly whenever their people are hurt, and especially when their people do something particularly _stupid_ and get themselves hurt.

The final nail in the coffin is the single phrase Reborn managed to keep his student from spitting at an unprepared, unknowing teenager. _Your life belongs to me_ , Sawada almost said, with all the absolute, furious assurance of a king.

Yamamoto Takeshi has never sworn any oath to the Vongola, or, more importantly, to Sawada Tsunayoshi.

If Sawada’s temper is anything to go by, that’s unlikely to remain the case for too much longer. Vongola are possessive of their people, often violently so. Sawada might be unusually kind for his Family, but he’s not all unique, if how close he’s keeping Gokudera is any indication.

“What are we going to do with him, Leon?” Reborn asks quietly, as he climbs back into his hidden office. It’s probably best to let the baby hitman process, and to give Tsunayoshi a chance to cool down. Besides, Reborn could use the time to organize his new information, and to consider what it means.

Leon hisses annoyedly, climbing down from the brim of his hat to perch on his shoulder, and Reborn sighs, raising a hand to rub the chameleon’s head.

“That’s about what I thought.”

* * *

Tsuna stalks down the hallway, utterly ignoring the few other students who leap out of his way like they’re rabbits fleeing a forest fire.

Hayato follows at his boss’s heels, careful to keep a polite distance. Tsuna’s so furious that he probably doesn’t want _anyone_ near him, but Hayato isn’t willing to leave him alone. Not when Tsuna clearly hasn’t been sleeping, and is so angry he’d probably forget to restrain himself if someone who didn’t matter got in his way.

They only make it out to the entry hall of the school before Tsuna’s shoulders sag, and he stumbles out of the main hallway, out of sight of anyone coming by. He leans up against one of the lockers, as though it’s the only thing keeping him upright, and covers his face with one hand. Hayato watches him carefully, and pretends he can’t hear how irregular Tsuna’s breathing is.

Something about the idiot on the roof--the school baseball star?--has left Tsuna unsettled and shaking, and it makes Hayato nervous. Tsuna seems honest, not like most bosses Hayato’s seen, but there are a lot of people in the world who don’t much like upstart halfbreeds like Hayato seeing them start to break down.

Taking a few steps away from his new Boss, Hayato takes up a position at the corner where their row of lockers joins the hall, and keeps watch, pretending as best he can that he doesn’t know how close Tsuna is to tears.

It itches down his spine, to pretend not to see. It feels like he’s abandoning Tsuna, but Hayato still isn’t sure if Tsuna _wants_ someone to comfort him, last night notwithstanding.

“--probably down this way,” the authoritative voice that can only be Kurokawa says, drifting down the hallway. “Idiot has terrible choices in hiding spots.”

Hayato clicks his tongue at what the girl’s saying, and curls his fingers around the lighter in his pocket, thumb ready on the flint wheel.

Whether he’s getting ready to light a fuse or a cigarette, he’s not quite sure.

There’s the sound of footsteps, and it’s not long before Kurokawa and Sasagawa come into view down the hallway. Honestly, Hayato’s not sure why he bothered thinking they weren’t going to show up in the first place. He turns to Tsuna, whose shoulders are steadier now, no longer shaking.

“Do you want me to get rid of them?” he asks his Boss, because the girls can be trying at the best of times, _especially_ Kurokawa.

Tsuna takes a deep, shuddering breath, and lowers his hand.

“No,” he says, and the word is careful as if he had to carve it out of marble. His voice still trembles. “No. It’ll be good to see them.”

Hayato looks over his Boss, more than a little doubtful. It’s not his place to disobey Tsuna’s orders, or to deny him, but.

But he can skirt the edges, just a bit, right? Just the slightest bit, until Tsuna’s hands have stopped trembling and the ragged edge has finally gone out of his breathing. He’s seen how dangerous Tsuna is, when he’s on edge, and the last thing he needs to do is expose people Tsuna likes to it. Given how badly Tsuna reacted to just threatening _him_ , Hayato dreads what the reaction would be if Tsuna came back to himself and realized he’d been threatening Kurokawa, or, God forbid, _Sasagawa_.

Squaring his shoulders, Hayato steps out into the hallway, directly into Kurokawa and Sasagawa’s path. He keeps one hand in his pocket, though he knows he shouldn’t even think about flinging explosives around in the building. Not only would Hibari, freak that he is, try and beat Hayato to death, Tsuna would probably look at him with disappointment, and it’s just not worth it.

The two girls stop quickly, just a few feet away, and Kurokawa’s expression, which might have had the faintest hint of concern, turns fierce.

“Get out of my way, monkey,” she says, imperious and cold, a look in her eye like she thinks he doesn’t know what he’s doing. Hayato’s temper flares--how _dare_ she act like he’s not doing his best for his Boss?

“ _Bitch_ ,” he hisses, before he bites down his temper. It won’t help Tsuna if the two of them get into a snarling match barely ten feet from him. “Just, wait a second, okay? He’s not...doing so great, right now.”

Kurokawa tilts her head back and surveys him, like she’s not sure he’s equipped to have an opinion on something like that. Hayato bristles at that familiar look, his fingers tightening on his lighter. See if she’s so high-and-mighty after he sets her _hair_ on fire. _She’s_ no don or capo’s daughter. He can do it to her if he needs to.

“What did Yamamoto-kun do that upset Tsuna-kun, then?” Sasagawa, asks, neatly breaking the tension before Hayato feels like he has to start snarling at Kurokawa, or flicking his lighter.

“Besides almost jump off the fucking roof?” Hayato says snidely, before forcing himself to relax, and shrugging. “I don’t know.”

Kurokawa frowns, her eyes flickering to Tsuna, over Hayato’s shoulder. Her lips tighten for a moment, before she sighs softly.

“And of course he’s not going to _tell anyone_ because he’s an idiot monkey that way.”

Hayato would snarl at the insult, except Kurokawa’s sentiment is essentially just a ruder way of saying exactly how he feels about the situation. Instead he just shrugs, and darts a glance over his shoulder.

Tsuna’s stance is a little steadier now, and his shoulders are even, no longer hitching a little at his uneven breathing. There’s no reason for Hayato to be stalling anymore.

He turns back to Kurokawa, and meets her eyes steadily, serious in a way he’s never been with her before.

“Don’t upset him,” he hisses. “The baseball idiot was bad enough, I don’t want to see him hurt any more today.” The guilt in the kitchen this morning, the absolute fury over all-consuming fear that filled Tsuna when the news came about the baseball idiot--it’s like the emotion dial has been turned all the way up to eleven, and Hayato doesn’t think that he or Tsuna would deal well with any more dramatics.

There’s a flicker of something that might almost be approval in her eyes, before she sniffs disdainfully and pushes past him.

Sasagawa lags behind, and when Hayato turns to look at her, she smiles sunnily at him.

“I’m glad he has someone like you looking after him,” she says, before breezing by. Hayato blinks at the place where she stood, not certain of her meaning. The sound of Kurokawa’s voice, though, breaks his confusion, and he turns to look at where she’s glaring at Tsuna.

“What did that baseball monkey say to you?” she asks, and she looks furious, with her hands on her hips and everything.

Tsuna just blinks at her.

“He didn’t...say anything to me,” he says, after a moment. “I was...very cruel, and I almost said something unwise to him. Someone stopped me, fortunately, but I thought it would be best to remove myself from the situation before I made it worse.”

“Stop talking like an old man,” Kurokawa snaps, utterly unimpressed. “It doesn’t suit you. Besides, he probably deserved it.”

Sasagawa, stepping past Kurokawa, looks up at Tsuna, concerned.

“No Hibari-san this time?” she asks, which sounds like complete nonsense to Hayato.

“Not this time,” Tsuna agrees. “It’s a different thing.”

She looks at him, doubtful, and frowns slightly.

“It looks the same to me,” she says, but lets it go anyway. Tsuna smiles at her, soft and a little sad, but still utterly fond.

“Not quite.”

Hayato turns back to the hallway, feeling a little like he’s intruding somewhere that he’s not welcome. He doesn’t know how Tsuna and the girls became friends, but they seem to be good at taking care of him. He’s glad that someone does, because for all the mafia courtesy and politics he knows, something like this leaves him a little out of his depth.

* * *

Takeshi’s not sure how he finished out the school day, because he doesn’t remember going back to class, but he knows that Hibari’s Disciplinary Committee took back over the Reception Room, so he can’t have spent the last hours there.

It doesn’t really matter.

He has only the vaguest memories of walking home too, just the sense of finally remembering to stop at the crosswalks, or to check for cars on the streets too small for crosswalks. He hasn’t bothered with it for months, not really, but.

But he when thinks of accidentally or not-so-accidentally stepping in front of a car, something in his heart clutches. The image of challenging orange eyes burns in his brain, and he stops. He looks. He’s careful, in the moment.

_...the son his wife died for..._

By the time he finally reaches his house, he thinks he might be real, and in control of his own actions. It’s a strange feeling, since he’s gone so long without it, and he’s not sure he really likes it.

He hesitates for a moment longer outside, considering. It’s no certain thing that the baby has actually managed to keep the school from calling his father. Kids get weird ideas sometimes. He should know.

But it might be easier to go ahead like the school didn’t call, just in case. If his dad doesn’t bring anything awkward up, it’s like it never happened, right?

Right.

He hitches his backpack higher on his shoulder and steps into the front door. Inside, his dad is starting to prepare for the evening, sorting out chairs, and making sure that the tables are clean. Takeshi watches for a moment, letting the sound of his father’s humming wash over him, before darting in to wrap his arms around his dad’s waist, burying his face in a worn shirt that smells like fish and aftershave.

“Takeshi?” his dad asks, nonplussed. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Takeshi mutters, not quite willing to look up yet. “Sorry,” he adds, even though his father doesn’t know what he’s apologizing for.

“What are you sorry for?” his dad says, leaning back as though trying to get a look at Takeshi’s face. “Did something happen at school?”

Takeshi shakes his head, marvelling a little that the baby really could keep anyone from alerting his dad. It’s kind of creepy, if he thinks too hard about it, so he doesn’t, and instead just lets himself be thankful. He doesn’t want to have to explain it just now, when reality still feels new and fragile.

“No,” he says. “Just, sorry.”

His dad sighs, resting his chin on Takeshi’s head for a moment, before letting go.

“Put your stuff away and do your homework,” he says. “If you finish before I’m done neatening up and checking stock, you can watch me prep the fish.”

It’s a bribe that has worked many times before, and today is no exception. Takeshi loves watching his father work to prepare for the night, loves the quick competence of his father’s knifework.

“Okay,” Takeshi says, but doesn’t let go.

“Come on, kid,” his dad says, prying himself free. “Your homework isn’t going to do itself.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Takeshi mutters, but he steps back from his father and goes to do his homework. He’d normally have to rush through his work in order to finish on time to watch his dad, but he only has the work from his morning classes. Which means he probably didn’t go back to class after he left the Reception Room. That matches with blurry memories of a quiet corner of the grounds that could be from today.

A lot of the work looks like nonsense, which is probably because he hasn’t really been paying attention in class for the past few weeks. Failure to improve is--was--more consuming. Still, he can probably at least put something down for every assignment. He’s well liked enough by the teachers that it won’t matter if his answers make no sense.

His lips twist at the reminder, but at least for today, his teachers’ favoritism is working for him. He sets to work with a will, even if he has no idea what he’s doing. It’s fine. He’s a solid student, and he knows enough to scrape by.

He scribbles away, and it doesn’t take long for him to finish to his usual low standards. Once he’s done, he takes a few minutes to shuffle the papers, and put them away slowly, just so his dad doesn’t give him a disappointed look for taking too little time with his homework, and send him back to “do it properly this time.”

If his dad doesn’t know he tried to jump off the roof at lunch, and then skipped out on all of his classes after, there’s no need to advertise the fact.

Eventually, he gets bored with killing time. Hoping that he’s been gone for long enough that his dad will just think he rushed it a bit, and let him watch anyway, he makes sure all of the work is back in his schoolbag. Once it’s all packed, he rushes back downstairs and hops up on one of the stools at the counter.

His dad gives him a look that says he didn’t quite take enough time, but doesn’t send him away. Takeshi sighs contentedly and rests his chin on one hand to watch as his father’s tough, steady hands slice filets off of whole fish and cleanly remove skin. Other pieces have already been set aside, but that’s okay. This is the part Takeshi loves best, and always has. The motions are hypnotic, each cut utterly precise.

He watches the way the blade flashes in the overhead light, the way the fish is expertly disassembled into the cuts that will be used over the course of the evening, the useless pieces tossed into a tray to be thrown out in a few minutes.

The edge of the knife is very sharp, and very narrow.

Takeshi thinks of Sawada and Gokudera, of the daisho in his father’s closet and the way that everyone’s seen Sawada with Hibari-san, dancing around every blow of the tonfa. Uncatchable as thistledown on the breeze.

 _I refuse to lose you to them_ , Sawada said, with his eyes like fury, and his voice still echoes with conviction in the back of Takeshi’s head. But if he’s supposed to be better than baseball, what is he supposed to _do_?

 _Tick-tick-tick_ goes the knife, as it cuts through the salmon’s ribs. He’s not allowed to touch his dad’s sushi knives, but he knows how sharp they are, how much attention his dad gives them, and that there are tricks that his dad doesn’t like to show off.

He thinks about the dojo in the back, and how careful his father is that the door stays locked.

 _You are a problem_ , the baby said, dark eyes cool and level. _Fix yourself._

Sawada and the baby are playing a game, he thinks, putting together a team. They’ll need other players, to fit in with Sawada and Hibari and the new transfer. Takeshi has always been good at being whatever the team needs, with conviction.

“Dad?” Takeshi asks, and this feels like the right thing to do, but also like something he can never turn back from. It’s scary, but the image of Sawada’s eyes, like molten metal, challenging him on that rooftop, still burns in his brain. The way he just tilted his head, and Gokudera moved, like he already knew what to do. Like they didn’t have to speak to tell each other everything that mattered.

Every time he thinks about not taking this step, the challenge in those orange eyes grows. It becomes more dismissive, as though his inability to commit to this was never in doubt. Takeshi’s never been good at backing down from challenges.

His dad’s looking at him, seeming almost a little worried, and Takeshi grins, trying to take the edge off of his old man’s expression.

It doesn’t help, and he lets the expression fall. It’s a bad fit for the conversation he wants to have anyway. He’s just not sure how to start.

“Something up?” his dad asks, hands momentarily stilling from pulling bone out of the salmon’s side. Takeshi slouches down onto the counter, and considers.

“Actually,” he says, “yeah. I um. I maybe made a friend today?” Takeshi focuses on drawing abstract designs on the countertop with his finger. “But he’s. Really intense.”

His father snorts, and returns to the fish, making a deliberate cut. “You can be pretty intense yourself, kid.”

Well, yes, but it’s not the same thing. Takeshi gets intense because there’s not much else inside him. He missed that particular lesson somehow, and it shows, if he’s not careful. But if he’s focused on something and he smiles, people don’t seem to notice as fast. He’s gotten really good at that kind of redirection, over the years. Sometimes he even forgets that he kind of forgot to build his whole self concept on anything that’s, well, actually real.

Then things like breaking his arm happen. Look where that got him. More reasons not to introspect.

Well, actually, the whole rooftop incident has worked out pretty well for Takeshi, if he’s thinking about it. He usually avoids doing that, because if he starts _really_ thinking, he stops smiling, and people start to worry.

His dad never worries, though, so Takeshi can think all he wants.

Takeshi sometimes wonders if his dad is all pretending, like he is. He had to get it from _somewhere_ , right? And he got his temper from his mom. It wouldn’t be fair for him to get this particular kind of crazy from her too.

“It’s a different kind of intense,” he finally tells his dad, ignoring the digression in his thoughts. There’s no point in explaining that his intensity is an attempt at being flat as paper, and Sawada’s kind of intense is a fire that could burn him alive.

It doesn’t make sense anyway.

Besides, like jumping off of a school building, like flying, burning could be interesting.

As if to remind him of the decision he’s already made, his father’s knife hits the cutting board with the soft _thunk_ that has always been the sound of his home. Takeshi thought, up on the rooftop, that hitting the ground might just be a louder version of that noise. He never got to find out.

He rubs absently at his wrist, where he thinks he can almost still feel the heat of Sawada’s hand against his skin. Things worth killing yourself for.

 _You just might do after all_.

“You said I should only ask if I was serious about it, but,” Takeshi says, shrugging awkwardly and taking a deep breath. He doesn’t know why this is important, but he feels like he _has_ to do this.

“Will you teach me kendo?”

The knife almost falls out of his father’s hand. Still, with impressive reflexes, his dad manages to close his grip on it, and set the knife to the side.

“Why do you want to learn?” he asks, and there’s a tension to the question that Takeshi’s not used to hearing from his dad.

Still, it’s not enough to dissuade him.

“Sawada, the uh. Friend? I made,” Takeshi says. “He’s kind of weird. I get the feeling keeping up with him won’t be so easy, and I guess...I think I might need it, to help him out, you know?”

Takeshi’s dad looks up at him, as though gauging how honest Takeshi is being about this. Gauging if this reason is good enough.

Takeshi’s being as honest as can be. This is _serious_ , somehow. He’s possibly more serious about it than he ever was about baseball. He’s not sure. It’s been a long time since he decided to start playing baseball. He doesn’t remember much of being that young.

Finally, his dad sighs, and returns to his prep, hands moving more quickly.

“Well,” he says. “Let me finish up and we’ll get started. Even while your arm’s healing, there’s some work we can do”

* * *

Takeshi doesn’t tell anyone what he’s doing, when he starts lessons with his dad. He just puts in the paperwork to leave the baseball club, which is a disaster all its own--the team isn’t all that happy about losing their star pitcher to circumstances that they can’t understand. Even if Takeshi’s out of commission right now, none of them doubted he’d come back from the injury.

His popularity takes a hit, but that was never really something he cared too much for, and Sawada’s on the outside anyways. He’s just getting a head start on where he’s going to be from now on.

The hours that used to be spent on the baseball field are spent with his father instead, in the quiet of training.

He misses the sunlight, the camaraderie, the feeling of being effortlessly on top, sometimes. But kendo is interesting in an entirely different way from baseball, and he loves it, the way that his father is never satisfied with anything less than the absolute best Takeshi can muster. It’s nothing like baseball, where he got away with performing at less than his peak, just because no one else could keep up.

It’s intense, like the pounding of rain during the heaviest thunderstorms, and Takeshi has to admit that it’s better than anything else. It feels like it might fit alongside Sawada’s own ferocity, and it’s interesting how exciting that thought is to him.

Still, he doesn’t approach Sawada with it, not at first, not when he’s just started. Sawada is still incomprehensibly bright and brilliant, now that Takeshi is paying attention, even when he’s sleeping at his desk, or staring blankly at the board in class.

Takeshi isn’t ready for that all the time. If he’s going to try and hang out with Sawada, he’s got to be able to handle anything, and right now, his hands are too clumsy, his feet far too slow. His arm is still too far from healed.

He can’t start playing for real until he’s ready to give the game his all. For now, he’s just in training, raw and unpolished as any rookie.

He can’t take up the challenge until he can give it more than that bare level of skill. The baby and Sawada have invited him to a league like no other. He refuses to enter it half-hearted, unready to take the beating of a full game.

 _Shigure Soen Ryu_ , his father says, when they stretch and work on footwork together, when Takeshi lies panting on the mats and tries to will his arm to heal faster, _is utterly flawless and invincible_.

Takeshi is going to join Sawada’s team before he’s had a chance to master the sword style his father will show him, but he gets the feeling that it won’t matter too much. The baby seems like a pretty strict coach, and between him and his dad, Takeshi doesn’t think he’ll be allowed to lag for long.

* * *

Two weeks later, Takeshi’s finally made his resignation from the baseball team stick. His brain is full of his father’s philosophy, instead of baseball stats, and his father constantly drills more into his head during their practices, in lieu of actual swordwork. His footwork is still clumsy, and he still feels slow, but he thinks he might match Tsuna a little better.

The decision doesn’t feel half-made anymore. Before it still sometimes felt like he could go back to baseball, could split his time and energy between the sword and sports. Now it feels steadier--which is weird, because Takeshi isn’t used to _steady_ \--and he finds that he doesn’t really miss baseball that much.

There’s a better game afoot.

Of course, if he wants to join in, he has to talk to Sawada. Unfortunately, Sawada’s become incredibly good at vanishing out of the middle of a crowd of people. That is, when he’s not being guarded against any and all approaches by the new transfer student.

That’s part of why Takeshi wants to talk to Sawada--Gokudera Hayato has already attached himself to Sawada, for no reason anyone can tell, and Takeshi’s curious. The only other friends Sawada has, and the only other people Gokudera allows close, are Sasagawa Kyoko and Kurokawa Hana, which says a lot about exactly who Sawada is, but none of it conclusive. Hibari is one of Sawada’s teammates, but Takeshi’s not sure that _anyone_ calls Hibari a friend.

Dad, when Takeshi shares his thoughts, said that the best way to make accurate conclusions is to gather firsthand information. Which is why Takeshi is here, outside of the Sawada house, waiting for Sawada to come out and walk to school.

Of course, because Sawada is never alone, Takeshi isn’t the only person waiting.

Gokudera is glaring, and Takeshi just turns up his smile, wondering if he’s finally met someone the expression doesn’t charm.

Judging by the way Gokudera’s expression is becoming steadily more murderous, and the way he’s reaching into his pockets like he wants a weapon, Takeshi would say he likely has.

That’s a shame, because the smile is about the only social defense he has. Takeshi really doesn’t want to die as messily as that glare promises, but he doesn’t really have a way to avoid it.

Just as it begins to look like Gokudera’s found something to shred Takeshi to bits with, Sawada’s voice snaps through the morning air like a whipcrack. It’s something in a language Takeshi doesn’t recognize, and Gokudera freezes, letting go of whatever weapon it is that he has in his pocket. He calls back something in the same language, a protest maybe, but Sawada’s closing the gate behind himself, and he looks implacable.

Gokudera deflates, his hands coming out of his pockets, empty. Sawada presses a hand to his arm, saying something quiet and reassuring. Whatever it is, Gokudera perks right back up again, but doesn’t return to glaring at Takeshi.

Takeshi thinks that Gokudera’s possibly kind of a weird guy.

Sawada steps away, just in front of Gokudera, and checks his watch.

“We’d better get going then,” he says. “I don’t need Hibari-san deciding I need any more training.”

Takeshi can’t help laughing. Of course Hibari thinks that attacking Sawada is some form of training him. Hibari’s weird like that.

Gokudera says something that sounds uncomplimentary, taking an angry drag on his cigarette.

Sawada reaches back and smacks him without looking, before he says, not-quite-playful, “Japanese, Hayato.”

Gokudera blows out a plume of silver smoke and mutters something that might possibly be “whatever.”

Takeshi can feel his grin as they start walking. He falls in beside Gokudera, just behind and to the left of Sawada. It’s a tricky sort of position to keep, because his legs are so much longer than Sawada’s, but Gokudera’s keeping his place with a kind of easy fanaticism, and Sawada doesn’t so much as blink, just starts walking, like that’s exactly where Takeshi should be. Takeshi hates to disappoint, especially since Sawada might just be the weirdest, most interesting guy he’s ever met.

Takeshi’s grin widens. _This_ , he thinks, _is going to be incredible._ He’s not sure exactly what the game looks like, not yet, but he has no doubts that it’s going to be good.

* * *

Tsuna contemplates Takeshi and Hayato, chewing absently on his lip. The two of them are sniping at each other--or, well, Hayato is sniping, and Takeshi is playing the fool. It’s a weird bit of social acumen on Takeshi’s part, and Tsuna might even appreciate it if he didn’t need the two of them to work together eventually, without screaming, property damage and mental scarring.

He’d rather let them hash it out themselves--they figured it out on their own in the memories, but trouble’s coming sooner rather than later-- _blood and breaking bone and madness in the air thick enough to choke on, horror like a stone in his throat. Lightning burning in his blood and the world moving syrup-slow._

Tsuna blinks and breathes slowly. It’s easier with the early memories--their terror is worn easy from age, overshadowed by worse things, the things that were even more utterly pointless and horrific and unfixable.

“I know you think this is funny, and they’ll work it out eventually,” he says to Reborn, who is casually half-asleep by him, sunglasses on, “but I do need them capable of working together sometime this year.

A smile curls Reborn’s lips, and Tsuna feels a shiver crawl down his back at the sight.

“Oh, Tsuna,” Reborn says, sitting up and tucking the sunglasses away, “Why didn’t you say so earlier?”

Tsuna regrets his life choices. He regrets them _emphatically_.

* * *

They’re out in the woods, today. Hayato didn’t get much more information than Reborn saying “We’re training today, follow me,” but honestly, he doesn’t much care. He’s more concerned with the fact that the damned baseball idiot is here too, like he has any kind of right.

Not only has the asshole had the _gall_ to be hanging around Tsuna, like he wasn’t responsible for Tsuna breaking down, but he’s a goddamned _civilian_ , who has no right to be this close to the heart of the Vongola.

The Hibari asshole is different. Not only does Tsuna genuinely seem to like him, but he’s got his shit together in a way that the baseball idiot clearly doesn’t.

“Today, for training, we’re going to play tag, Vongola style.”

With that, there’s promptly a _click_ , and there’s a handcuff around Hayato’s wrist. It’s instinct to reach for the key tucked into one of his bracelets, but a closer examination of the cuff reveals it’s a proprietary lock, not one of the standard ones Hayato has keys for. Also, just to add to the humiliation, the chain is longer than normal--almost two meters--and at the other end is the baseball idiot.

“You’re fucking kidding me,” he says flatly, too busy staring at the metal on his wrist to think about watching his language in front of Reborn.

“Nope,” Reborn replies cheerily. “If you try to take off the cuff, you get a penalty!”

Tsuna, who is standing a little to Hayato’s left, makes a noise that _could_ be a choked off laugh, but is probably a stifled cough.

“The rules are simple,” Reborn continues to explain, having somehow acquired a comically large stopwatch and an outfit that makes him look like an athletics coach. “Tag Tsuna out, and you win. If he tags both of you out within two minutes of each other he wins. The game is over when you win three times in a row, or you’ve lost enough times that it’s embarrassing.”

Hayato frowns, tugging on the handcuff. “So why am I chained to the baseball idiot, if we just have to tag Tsuna?”

Reborn smiles. Hayato feels abstractly doomed. “Did I forget to mention that you need to both tag Tsuna for the win to count? My mistake. Also, if you take off the chain you get a penalty, remember!”

The idiot laughs a little, folding his arms behind his head like he doesn’t have a care in the world. “This is a cool teamwork exercise, little dude!”

Hayato stiffens, tugging back against the pull on his wrist.. “Why is he here anyway? What does he have to do with the Vongola?”

“Vongola?” the baseball idiot says, idiotically. “Is that the name of our team?”

Hayato’s teeth grind so hard that he’s sure it’s audible. “This isn’t a _game_ , idiot,” he snarls.

“Isn’t it?” the baseball idiot says, smiling like he’s posing for the cover of a goddamned magazine.

Hayato nearly bites down on his cigarette out of pure rage. Instead he takes a long, fierce drag, and contemplates shoving dynamite into the idiot’s mouth.

“ _Hayato_ ,” Tsuna says in Italian, sounding somewhere between warning and amused, “ _you can’t kill him_.”

Restraining the impulse to whine like a two-year-old, Hayato just makes do with throwing Tsuna a pleading look, which gets him nothing but a raised eyebrow.

Okay, fine. No killing the idiot. At least, not right now. Maybe later, when he’s proved how useless he is, Tsuna will get tired of him, and Hayato can take him out.

“If we’ve sufficiently covered the rules,” Reborn says, cheerily ignoring the byplay and the injunction against murder, “Tsuna, you have three minutes to get away.” He pulls out a shoulder-mounted rocket launcher--Hayato doesn’t know where Reborn pulled it out from, or how he got it in baby size but he is in _awe_ \--and clicks off the trigger. “I suggest running quickly.”

“You are such an _asshole_ ,” Tsuna complains, before taking off from a standing start and leaping directly over the chain between Hayato and the baseball idiot, where it lies on the ground. He vanishes into the trees a moment later. It’s impressive, because he’s wearing an orange and white hoodie, and the trees are just beginning to leaf out for the spring.

Or maybe it’s just impressive to Hayato because he’s a city boy at heart. He can already see this ‘game’ of Reborn’s going horribly wrong as a result. The handcuffs are a whole different category of disaster, and Hayato isn’t ready to deal with that quite yet.

Reborn’s dark eyes are alight with his typical amused malice, and he points the rocket launcher at Hayato next.

“You better get going after him,” Reborn says cheerily, “Don’t want him to get too much of a head start.”

“It hasn’t been three minutes yet,” the idiot objects, sounding amused, and Reborn just shrugs, and taps the safety pin on the rocket launcher.

“I got bored,” he says. “Get going. And make sure not to get yourselves tangled up.”

Hayato rolls his eyes, and tugs on the chain, heading off in the direction Tsuna went. He’s not going to let that happen.

* * *

Hayato doesn’t really know how this happened, but somehow he lost track of two meters of chain and the person attached to it. The chain is now wrapped and tangled around a tree, several bushes, and some particularly vicious thorned vines, and he doesn’t even have the excuse that it’s some kind of weird underground tech. This is the most embarrassing moment of his life, but at least there’s no one else present to witness how horrifically he has failed at basic situational awareness.

“Wow,” Tsuna’s voice says. “That’s...bad. I knew this was going to be rough, but this is just sad. Also really funny.”

Hayato stomach drops, and he looks around wildly for where Tsuna’s voice is coming from, and finally finds his boss by twisting awkwardly, and ignoring the prickling of thorns against his back.

Tsuna is standing by one of the trees just a few feet away from the baseball idiot, carefully out of range of any desperate moves on the idiot’s part. Hayato writhes a little bit, mostly helpless.

“It would just be cruel of me to tag you out right now, so I’ll leave you guys to get untangled. Have fun!” Tsuna says, before vanishing into the woods again.

Hayato’s boss is cool, and kind of fabulous, but also, apparently, a bit of a dick.

It takes fifteen minutes and a lot of snarling on Hayato’s part before he and the idiot manage to get themselves untangled. There are dozens of shallow scratches from the thorny vines all across his arms and back, which sting enough to be worth swearing at, but are basically unimportant.

After that, Hayato pays a lot more attention to the chain between them, and takes to yanking ruthlessly on it to keep it from tangling in bushes, or to remind the idiot that it’s there. They don’t talk, just wander through the woods like a pair of fucking idiots. Hayato tries to set them on something of a search pattern, but the trees and the necessity of keeping them from getting tangled again make it hard to keep to it.

Not to mention the fact that the idiot likes to take off in random directions after any crackle or rustle, or sometimes completely at random. Hayato grits his teeth and tries to just bear it, and he hisses out long series of swear words when just gritting his teeth isn’t enough to keep his temper in check.

They don’t find anything, in spite of having searched for almost fifteen minutes, and finally Hayato puts his foot down and plants himself against the idiot’s pulling. He tries to put together an idea of what Tsuna would have done, where he would have gone. It’s hard--Hayato’s never been good with people, and especially never been good at thinking like other people. He’s an explosives expert--he’s good with structures, not with personalities.

Still, he tries. There are some things he can be sure of--Tsuna won’t be too far way, since he showed up so quickly to laugh at them when they were tangled, and since he wins by tagging them. He’s probably usually close enough to watch them, but hidden enough to not be observed.

Hayato longs for a cigarette. If this was in any Italian city, he could probably pinpoint where his boss was, down to the meter, but he’s no good with forests.

A warning rustle breaks into his concentration, and then something has slapped Hayato hard on the shoulder. Turning, he finds Tsuna, sprawled out on his back, catching his breath and snickering to himself, and the baseball idiot holding a hand to one shoulder as well.

The whistle rings out.

“I win,” Tsuna says, before levering himself to his feet. “You guys really need to learn to look up.”

“Did you just jump out of a _tree_ at us?” the baseball idiot asks, and Hayato hates to agree with the idiot, but he does. How did Tsuna even get up there in the first place?

“I told you,” Tsuna says, grinning as he brushes leaf litter off his back. “You guys need to look up more. Everything happens in three dimensions.”

Hayato bristles a little bit at the teasing comment, which sounds entirely too much like Shamal taunting him for missing a mosquito drone during the short period where the doctor decided to train him. There’s more laughter in Tsuna’s voice, less exasperated exhaustion. Still, for all that Tsuna is light where Shamal was mocking, the undercurrent of wary experience is the same.

It’s a thought for another day, another time. Hayato files it away carefully, after the questions about how Tsuna knows Italian, and before the questions about what Tsuna dreams of, and why he treats Hayato like they’ve been friends for years.

It will be a long time before Hayato can ask those questions, and now isn’t even the time to think about them. He has an idiot to wrangle, and training to attend to.

Given the disadvantages he’s at, not the least of which is chained to him and laughing like a fool, he can’t afford not to take this seriously.

Tsuna stretches his hands, like they hurt, and then his eyes flicker to something above Hayato’s head, and his eyes widen.

“Gottarunbye!” he yelps, before taking off. A fusillade of bullets pepper the ground where he was standing, just a moment later. Hayato marvels idly at Reborn’s precision, and keeps an eye on the idiot, just in case the typical civilian idiocy makes an appearance.

“Wow,” the idiot says, “you guys sure have cool training toys!”

In spite of the fact that Hayato was ready to be irritated by the typical civilian response to bullets flying over their heads, the blithe acceptance he gets instead still manages to make him see red.

“Were you born this stupid, or did they feed you funny pills on the baseball team?” he asks, before stalking off after Tsuna, not waiting for a response.

The idiot lags, which he hadn’t been doing before. Hayato puts up with it for a few minutes, thankful that at least there’s no longer any of the idiotic chatter, but eventually the constant pull and chafe of the handcuff gets annoying. When Hayato turns around, he finds that the reason for the lag is that the idiot is craning his neck up to stare at the branches over their heads.

The sight is so infuriating that Hayato can _feel_ his blood pressure spike.

“He’s not going to pull that trick again,” Hayato snarls, wrapping his hand in the chain of his cuff and yanking, to make sure he has the idiot’s attention. “This is training.”

“That’s exactly why he’s going to pull that trick again,” the idiot says, looking down at Hayato. His voice is mild and his eyes are hard. Hayato isn’t impressed “We need to learn to react to it right.”

Hayato scoffs. “Maybe that’s how it works among sports idiots, but--” a stick cracks, and there’s the rustle of leaves, and Hayato cuts himself off. Tilting his head, he turns slowly, trying to find where the sound came from. It’s mostly useless, because Hayato has done his very best, for most of his life, to keep himself in large, anonymous cities. He likes having internet, cell service and crowds to hide in. Trees are not his preferred milieu.

“If something works, why stop doing it?”

Hayato hisses a curse through his teeth, and the idiot falls silent, smile uncharacteristically absent. The rustling continues for several more seconds, before it finally dies. Hayato keeps a fraction his attention on his surroundings, just in case it was Tsuna. Mostly, however, he returns to snarling imprecations.

“I swear to God, he’s not going to do it again! This is training, and he knows we’re looking for him in the trees, he’s not going to make himself an easy target!” Hayato jerks on the chain as the idiot turns away, pulling it tight to make sure that he pays attention. “Do they not teach critical thinking in Japan, or something?”

The idiot’s expression is atypical--no smile, lips pressed tight and eyes hard, and Hayato wonders with vicious satisfaction if he’s finally going to have the guy be honest. There’s a tug on his wrist, as the idiot pulls back on the chain, and he opens his mouth to retort. Hayato readies himself for a fight, but before anyone can say anything, there’s a faint shushing sound of the ground being stirred up, and Tsuna is skidding down a small incline, ducking under the taut chain.

A hand brushes across Hayato’s shin, as Tsuna passes, and he regains his feet once he’s cleared the chain, with a measure of ungainly flailing. The baseball idiot tries to tag Tsuna, but Tsuna pivots quickly around the outstretched arm, and tags him along the bicep.

The whistle shrills out, and Tsuna steps back, bouncing a little on his toes, and not even breathing heavily. There’s a grin on his face that’s all play, and his eyes are bright.

“Well,” Tsuna says, and if it weren’t for the fact that the grin makes Tsuna look happier than he has in _weeks_ , Hayato thinks he might explode from the embarrassment. “I guess that’s another win for me.”

The whistle rings out again, for the start of a new round, and Tsuna tosses them a wave before taking off back into the trees. Hayato sighs, rolling out his shoulders, and tries to plot out where Tsuna could go in the woods. It’s a useless attempt, because he doesn’t have nearly enough information to track Tsuna out here, like he could in Roma, or even Namimori, but old habits die hard.

The game continues in that vein for hours, it feels like, with Hayato and the idiot struggling to make their way through the woods, and Tsuna occasionally appearing from out of the leaves and woods and tagging them out with casual ease. It’s a rare for them to even _catch sight_ of him before the round is over, let alone have a chance of tagging him.

Hayato would be more dispirited by that if Tsuna didn’t clearly know these woods like the back of his hand, and therefore have home ground advantage. Instead, his ire is thoroughly aimed at the idiot he’s chained to, who can’t stop laughing like a fool for long enough to let Hayato _think_.

Eventually, Reborn appears out of wherever he’s been hiding, watching and blowing his whistle, and calls an end to the training game.

“Since today has been thoroughly one-sided, we’ll stop now. The score is currently six-zero in Tsuna’s favor! We’ll be back to the game tomorrow, to see if the scores can be evened out.”

Tsuna sighs, and turns to follow Reborn out of the woods. Hayato falls in behind and to the right, like a right hand should. The idiot copies him to Tsuna’s left, which is at least something. If the idiot hasn’t realized the stakes of the situation, at the least he’s getting the hang of courtesy.

They’re almost out of the woods, picking their way down a small hill, when Tsuna’s foot catches on a root, and he manages to roll all the way down the rest of the hill.

“Unacceptable, Dame-Tsuna,” Reborn says, hopping onto Tsuna’s head, as Tsuna looks around woozily. “We’ll have to add additional physical training to your schedule. A mafia boss must be able to traverse all kinds of terrain without issue.”

“I hate everything that just came out of your mouth,” Tsuna mutters as he gets back to his feet, careful not to knock Reborn off. “Is four hours of running around in the woods twice a week, plus how much time I spend playing with Kyouya not enough training for you?”

“Of course not.”

“Sadist. What do I need to do for you to be satisfied? Bleed?”

Hayato is kind of a little bit in awe of his Boss’s ability to sass Reborn without being shot. It probably helps that Reborn can’t kill Tsuna, or even maim him. Hayato has no such sense of safety.

“It would be a good start.”

He’s also a bit surprised that Reborn plays along with Tsuna’s sassing, but then again, Reborn is the World’s Greatest Hitman, and no one is going to forget it anytime soon. He can do whatever the hell he wants, especially here.

“That’s just creepy, I hope you know.”

The pointless banter continues for several minutes, on the way back to the Sawada house. Hayato is content to listen to them without talking himself, and instead occupies himself with pointedly ignoring the idiot next to him. He can’t kill the guy, but if he leaves of his own volition, that’s different. Hayato knows a lot of ways to quietly pressure someone into wanting to leave.

They’re at the Sawada house gate, and the idiot laughs, breaking into Tsuna and Reborn’s conversation.

“I’d better go,” he says. “I kind of ran out on my dad, and he might be a bit worried.”

Hayato snorts quietly--a concerned father would be a first in his experience. The idiot doesn’t even look at him, just smiles at Tsuna when Tsuna nods at him, and turns to leave.

It’s all fine for about two seconds, before the idiot gets far enough away, and there’s a sharp jerk on the cuff Hayato had forgotten he was wearing. The idiot looks down at his own, dumbfounded, and then looks up at Hayato and laughs a little, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand.

“Sorry about that, Gokudera!” he says, grinning. “I forgot I still had this on!”

Hayato bites down on the _don’t use my name so casually_ that wants to snarl out. Instead he just glares, and his fingers twitch with how much he wants a cigarette, a lighter and a stick or fifteen of dynamite.

“Can you take these off, little dude?” the idiot asks Reborn, and Hayato nearly has an aneurysm on the spot. Calling Reborn ‘little dude’ should mean that the idiot’s reduced to a greasy smear in less time than it takes to blink. Instead, Reborn seems incredibly amused, and starts searching through his pockets.

“Oh dear,” Reborn says after a moment, with exaggerated surprise and concern, and Hayato feels a chill down his spine that has nothing to do with how he somehow forgot he was chained to the idiot. “I seem to have lost the keys, somewhere in the forest.”

Hayato stares. Reborn did _not_ just say that. Hayato will cut off the idiot’s hand--he will cut off _his own_ hand--before he remains chained to the guy for any longer than absolutely necessary.

“Reborn,” Tsuna says, mild as milk, but with the faint undertone of someone laughing at a private joke, “please don’t leave them chained together. I’m sure you would find it hilarious, but I can’t afford the cost of the repairs.”

Reborn just shrugs. “There are Vongola teams for that.”

“I’m not worried about the physical repairs,” Tsuna says, exasperated. “I’m worried about _Kyouya._ He’ll murder me if they blow up a building. Or five.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AO3 is punishing me for my love affair with italics by adding weird spacing to the punctuation around italic words. If you see anything that looks weird, let me know so I can fix it!
> 
> Chapter title, is, as usual, from Vienna Teng's "Level Up". Comments continue to feed me, while kudos stroke my ego.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://nathanielwsninski.tumblr.com)!


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